


Moon on Fire

by Wickedtruth



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Established Relationship, Horror, M/M, Psychic Bond, Psychic Violence, Soul Bond, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-31
Updated: 2010-12-31
Packaged: 2017-10-14 06:52:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 32,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/146574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wickedtruth/pseuds/Wickedtruth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set six months after the end of For The End of My Broken Heart.  The boys are still dealing with the change in their relationship, as well as the new bond, all while dealing with a case involving an Ancient Egyptian cult, a killer mummy and some very unusual deaths.  AU from the end of Season 1.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by Tobemeagain and Spn_snark.

It's been six months since he and Dean became lovers. Six months since his whole world rearranged itself around him. Six months since he realized that the things he thought he wanted weren't the things he _needed_.

They haven't seen Dad since the haunted house that nearly killed Dean. He's called, though the calls have been awkward and stilted, even by Winchester standards. Sam knows that it hurts his brother, this new distance between them and their father and though Dean tries hard not to show it, Sam can feel his brother's tangled emotions through the bond during the calls.

The bond itself has been growing steadily and its taken time for them both to adjust to it. It's unpredictable, sometimes Sam gets flashes of Dean's thoughts and emotions as clear as crystal and yet other times he can't feel a damned thing. He's never been able to see through Dean's eyes again though, much to Dean's poorly hidden relief. There have been one or two moments when Sam wonders if Dean's picked something up from Sam, but Dean's been somewhat tight lipped on the subject and Sam's learned not to push, not to try and make Dean talk before he's ready.

The transition from brothers to lovers hasn't been an easy one, even with the bond. They don't argue any less, or any less vehemently and the fact that they _are_ brothers still catches Sam sometimes, but it's a fleeting sensation, like an indistinct memory of a whole other life. He suspects that Dean feels the same way, though they've never talked about it. There's still a lingering sense of fear about Dean, as if he still can't quite let himself believe that Sam will stay this time. But Sam's patient and every day that he stays, he sees that fear fade a little more.

They've taken the last six months slowly, giving themselves time to _be_ instead of hunting without pause, with barely enough time to heal in between monsters. They've stayed on in towns once the hunt is over, gone to see the local sights, eaten in proper restaurants, closed the curtains and spent whole days in bed, until their room reeked of sex and sweat and their legs shook with exhaustion and their throats were raw.

Sam finds that he doesn't mind the cold nights spent in forests and graveyards or the gore and the mud so much anymore. Not when he gets to wake up the next morning, arms and legs tangled with Dean's. He used to want normal, used to crave it. He's learned that normal isn't always law school and white picket fences. This is normal for him now. This is what he wants.

Right now though, it's been two weeks since their last hunt and so far Sam hasn't been able to find anything even vaguely supernatural for them to investigate. They’ve been travelling aimlessly, never staying anywhere for more than a couple of days. Dean's getting short tempered and bored and even Sam's starting to feel twitchy.

They've been driving all day, through one small town after another, until Sam thinks he's never going to be able to straighten his legs again and Dean's eyes are red and slightly bloodshot from staring at the road for eight hours with only one short break. They started out early and it's a little after sunset when they finally pull into a motel. They pay for a room, dump their gear and head for the bar down the road.

While Dean's getting the drinks, Sam stretches his legs under the table and opens the laptop. He's doubtful that he's going to find them anything, but he has to keep looking, because they're both going to go stir crazy if they don't find something soon.

Dean sets a bottle of beer onto the table by Sam's hand and drops into the chair across the table, tipping his head back and drinking. Sam watches the way his brother's throat moves as Dean swallows. Six months and Sam still gets goose bumps. He's still staring when Dean pulls the bottle away from his lips and the smirk on Dean's face tells him that Dean knows _exactly_ what Sam was thinking about, knows that he was remembering this morning, when Dean sank to his knees in front of Sam and teased him mercilessly until Sam was begging for something, _anything_. He tries to hide the shiver that grips him by picking up and drinking his own beer, but when Dean chuckles, low and dirty, he knows he's busted. He looks at the laptop, trying to ignore the little voice at the back of his mind that reminds him that their room is less than 5 minutes away. He can feel the low hum of arousal and amusement through the bond. He's never said anything, but it warms something inside when Dean is like this, playful and cocky, when all the doubts and insecurities drop away and Sam can see his brother without the walls and the barriers he still hides behind most of the time.

He's so caught up in his thoughts that he reads the same paragraph three times before he finally takes any of it in.

"Hey, I think I found something."

"Really? What?" Dean leans forward, suddenly interested.

"Next state over, there's been three suspicious deaths in the last couple of months."

"Suspicious? How?"

"Well, it seems that they were suffocated, then their brains were apparently turned to Jell-O, although there was no damage to the skulls. Their internal organs were also removed and left in plastic containers next to the body. Except, and this is the _really_ odd part, each victim was missing one of their internal organs, but in each case, it was a different organ."

Dean pauses, beer half raised. He blinks, once.

"OK, that's definitely odd. Sick, even. But it could just be the work of some human sicko with too much Tupperware."

"They found resin under the last victim's fingernails. Resin that matches the type found on ancient Egyptian mummies. And each of the organs that have been taken from the scene matches those that the Ancient Egyptians removed during the mummification process; liver, lungs, stomach."

"Mummies? Ancient Egyptian mummies?"

"Yes."

"Sooo, you're thinking that there's an ancient Egyptian mummy, running around, offing people and stealing their organs? Like in the film?"

"Maybe."

"Maybe? Why would it an ancient Egyptian mummy be running around the Midwest killing people like that?"

"It could be an angry spirit, taking possession of the mummy."

Dean actually thinks that one over and Sam can see him running the idea through his head.

"Why would it be taking livers and things though?"

"I don't know. Maybe it's acting out something that it did in life, or that was done to it?"

"OK, that's a really unpleasant thought." Dean shrugs. "I still say it's probably some freaky serial killer, but we've got nothing else lined up, so we might as well go check it out. What do the local police have to say about it?"

"Nothing much. Looks as though they've dismissed the resin angle. Seems the last victim worked at the local museum and they've got a mummy display there. The police apparently believe that's where the resin must have come from."

Dean still doesn't look convinced, but he shrugs and drains the last of his beer. "Drink up, we've got a lot of driving to do tomorrow."

Sam finishes the bottle in two gulps, though it's still early evening and they've practically only just got to the bar. But he can see the look that Dean's throwing him and the anticipation is already fluttering in his stomach. Dean brushes against Sam and the contact makes his skin prickle with heat and want. Six months and the reaction is just as immediate and visceral as it was the first time. Sam's beginning to think this isn't ever going to get old and God, he's thankful for that.

*****

They leave just after dawn, packing up the car while the early morning dew is still frozen on the ground and their breath hangs in the air. Dean drives and Sam slouches in the passenger seat, watching the late autumn scenery slide past the window. He can hear Dean, humming quietly along with the song on one of the classic rock stations he loves so much, fingers tapping on the steering wheel and he can't help but smile. There have been so many times over the last few months that he'd thought things would never be right again, when he thought he'd lost Dean, one way or another, that there's a simple pleasure in moments like this that he wouldn't miss for the world.

It's so familiar, so comfortable that Sam finds himself dozing off, lulled by the familiar sounds and the gentle rumbling vibrations of the car. He doesn't wake until they stop for gas and lunch, eating greasy burgers and fries in a cafe with stained and scarred plastic tables and windows grimy with grease and dirt. It's everything Sam's always hated about their lives, but watching Dean lick ketchup from his fingers has Sam remembering how those hands feel when they're sliding over his skin. The small smear of mustard at the corner of his mouth makes Sam think of watching Dean slide those damned lips down over Sam's cock. He stares too long and Dean catches him, eyes widening before he grins and cocks an eyebrow. Cocky and smug and it still irritates the hell out of Sam, even as it pleases him to see Dean acting more like his normal self.

He takes a breath, looks away from Dean and tries to remember what it was like before they were lovers, when Dean's attitude and the endless line of diners and shitty motels made him long for freedom, to be able to leave all this and have normal. Now, he still hates the diners, Dean's still an irritating asshole and the motels haven't improved much, but none of it really matters anymore. He's finally learned that their surroundings don't matter. He has Dean and it's enough. It's more than enough.

Dean leans back, one arm stretched across the back of the bench seat, eyes bright with amusement and a touch of lust, his tongue reaching out to catch a patch of sauce that he's somehow managed to get on the palm of his hand. He's missed the smear of mustard though and Sam can't resist leaning forward and using his thumb to wipe it away, making sure he brushes over Dean's lower lip when he does. Dean's eyes half close, dark and sultry and Sam's not sure which of them squirms more. Dean sucks in a breath when Sam sucks the mustard from his own thumb and there's as much lust as amusement in his gaze now.

Sam manages to look away when the waitress brings their check, unasked, and leaves it on the table without saying a word to them, as if she wants to get them out as quickly as possible. Her glare as she leaves is at odds with her earlier friendly attitude and Sam wonders if it's because he and Dean aren't exactly hiding their flirtations. He glances back at Dean as the waitress leaves and he can tell by the frown creasing his brother's forehead that he's had the same thought. The easy sensuality of a few minutes ago has gone and Sam's relieved when Dean pulls out his wallet and throws some bills onto the table.

"Let's go." Dean's voice is tight and angry and as Sam slips out from the booth and follows Dean back to the car he can see the tension in his brother's shoulders. They've still got a lot of driving ahead of them and Sam doesn't want to spend all that time in the car with Dean so tense and angry.

He gets into the passenger side and waits for Dean to get behind the wheel. Before Dean can turn the key in the ignition, Sam leans over, grabs the collar of Dean's leather jacket and pulls. Dean's caught off-guard and he half turns, half falls towards Sam. Sam uses his other hand to catch Dean's shoulder, steadying him, then slides that hand up to Dean's neck, using it to pull Dean towards him until he can kiss his brother the way he's wanted to since they first got to the diner. It's slow and hot and Sam doesn't care who can see them, in fact he's rather hoping that that sour bitch of a waitress is watching.

Dean pulls away and Sam reluctantly lets him go.

"Making a statement?" Dean's voice is dry and Sam feels slightly guilty for being so obvious, but the frown has gone and though Dean is still a little uptight, the amusement and the lust are back, if subdued. Dean licks his lips, making Sam want to kiss him again, then he grins and turns the key. As they pull out of the parking lot Sam can't resist looking out of the rear window and sure enough, the sour faced waitress is watching them leave. Sam knows he ought to get used to it, either that or they're going to have to learn to be less obvious, but he can't help the anger at her attitude. He contemplates making some kind of rude gesture, but decides that it would be too childish and besides, they're too far away now for her to have seen it anyway.

Dean's hand lands on his knee, squeezes briefly, then lifts away to settle back on the steering wheel. Sam lets out a breath and relaxes back into his seat, reminding himself that other people don't matter. He chose this, knowing it wasn't going to be easy, but believing that the rewards would be worth the price that he, that _they_ , would have pay. He closes his eyes again, the weak sunlight warming his face through the window and lets the familiar sounds wash over him once more, soothing, calming, _right_.

****

When Sam starts making soft, snuffly little snores, Dean stifles a laugh. Sam always denies he makes any noise at all when sleeping and as much as Dean likes to tease him about it, he thinks it's kind of cute too. It's something that reminds him of when Sam was a kid. Dean glances over. His brother looks peaceful and happy and that's an expression Dean's only recently started seeing on Sam's face again and he's determined to keep it there for as long as possible.

He honestly never expected this. He never expected Sam to stay, to want this, to want him like this. A year ago Sam was all ready to walk away once more, to leave them again so he could go back to being like everyone else, normal, ignorant, blind. Yet he's still here, with Dean. Now they share tattoos that bind them even closer than blood and love. Dean's finally starting to believe that he's going to get this one good thing to keep. Sometimes, he's so happy it scares him. Sometimes, when he's content and sated and he should be as relaxed as he's ever been, the terror that he's not allowed to be this happy; that if he allows himself to drop his guard and enjoy this, it'll all be ripped away from him, sneaks up on him. He knows how to fight every evil thing under the sun, moon and stars; everything but his own fears. So if he clings a little too tightly when they're in bed, if he wraps himself around Sam like his brother's a gigantic teddy bear when they sleep, it's hardly surprising, though he'd cut off his own hand before he admitted it out loud.

Mostly though, he tries not to think about the future, or the past. He concentrates on here and now. He focuses on the possibility of a new hunt, the pleasure of a well tuned car, of Sam, dozing beside him. Dean's never wanted much in life: his family safe, the demon dead, to be loved. He glances over at Sam, watching the soft afternoon sun dance across his brother's face. His family isn't as safe as he'd like, the son-of-a-bitch demon is still out there somewhere, but he's starting to believe that maybe he's loved. God knows, he loves Sam more than is sane or sensible.

On good days, he figures that in his life, one out of three ain't that bad.

Its late afternoon by the time they reach their destination. For once they're in a city rather than some middle-of-nowhere huddle of buildings that's only just big enough to warrant the title of 'town'.

Dean pulls into a decent looking motel, leaving Sam sleeping while he gets them a room. Walking back to the car he notes a pool they won't use and a working ice machine that they probably will. It's not exactly the Hilton, but it's slightly more up-market than a lot of places they've stayed in. Sam's still out for the count when he gets back and Dean leans against the railings around the pool, content to just watch his brother for a moment. He's jolted out of his thoughts by laughter and loud voices nearby. He pushes away from the railings and walks to the car. He reaches out to shake Sam gently by the shoulder, but before his hand touches Sam, his brother opens his eyes and look straight at Dean. Dean knows it's the bond as much as anything else, but it still makes him both slightly awed and slightly uneasy how attuned Sam is to him.

Sam looks concerned for a second, so Dean grins at him and moves his other hand so that the room keys dangle in front Sam's face.

"We're here?"

"Yeah. Come on, let's get unloaded. I need a long, hot shower, several cold beers and something to eat that doesn't consist of grease, unidentified burnt bits and parts of animals I'd rather not think about."

Sam laughs and Dean's faint unease melts away.

"In that order?"

"Hmmm." Dean thinks about it. "Not necessarily."

They pull their bags out of the trunk and head for their room. Dean opens the door and dumps his stuff on one of the beds. He heads for what he assumes is the bathroom door and is caught by surprise when Sam suddenly wraps those freaky long arms around Dean's waist. Sometimes he still finds it hard to get his head around the fact that he and Sam are now lovers. Sometimes he lies awake at night, just turning the word 'lovers' over and over in his head. That and 'incest'. But neither word really describes what they have together, what they mean to each other. Dean's never really liked labels anyway; he's always thought that labels are for other people, not him, not Sam, not Dad.

"Want to share that shower?" He can practically hear Sam's grin.

"Save water?"

"Nah, save time. This way you can eat and get a beer that much quicker."

Dean turns, leaning into Sam, one hand curling around the back of his brother's neck, the other sliding into a back pocket of Sam's jeans, pulling him closer.

"You, me, hot water. You really think we're going to save time, or water?"

Sam's really grinning now and even when Dean drags his head down and kisses him, he can still feel Sam's smile against his lips. It never fails to amaze Dean, how easy it is to do this, how right it feels to lose himself with Sammy this way.

Sam steers them into the bathroom and they undress, trading kisses and getting themselves tangled in their clothes and each other. It's almost like being kids again and not even that thought dampens Dean's desire.

Getting the water the right temperature is tricky when Sam's hands are stroking over his skin, but he manages it. He steps into the tub and Sam follows, pressing Dean against the cold tiles, mouth moving over Dean's neck. He pulls Sam closer, curling one leg around his brother's hip, rocking and rolling his own hips. The bathroom fills with steam and Dean can feel the hot moist air beading on his skin, trickling down his spine. Sam hisses and scrapes his teeth down Dean's neck, from jaw to collar bone, catching on stubble. He shifts, grinding into Dean, lifting his head and kissing him, teasing him with licks and nips, while his hands move restlessly over Dean's skin.

It's slow and sensual and Dean's orgasm catches him by surprise, leaving him gasping and clutching Sam like a life line, feeling the pleasure wash through him from his head to his toes. He drops a hand and wraps his fingers around Sam's cock. The groan his brother gives makes Dean's pulse spike, though he's spent and sated and in no way ready for another round. It doesn't take long before Sam's coming, shivering and pressed as close to Dean as he can get.

By the time they've pulled themselves together and finished showering the water's nearly cold and its dark outside. They dress and Dean throws Sam the keys to the car. They drive until they find somewhere to eat where the ketchup bottles don't have their lids welded on with a crust that's probably older than Dean is.

It's a pleasure to be able to sit at a table that isn't plastic, on proper chairs rather than benches. To eat a decent steak while still feeling the pleasant lethargy from his earlier orgasm. To see Sam looking just as content, just as relaxed. It's not always like this. They still fight, they still misunderstand each other, they still drive each other crazy. He sometimes catches Sam watching him and while that concern warms him, it frustrates him too. Sam still treats him like he's made of glass, as if he'll break, sometimes like he’s still broken. Dean guesses he can't entirely blame him, but sometimes it gets so he feels as though he can barely turn around without Sam being there. That's usually when they have their worst fights. But as quickly as they flare up, the arguments die down. The bond has helped smooth over these disagreements, helped minimise the misunderstandings between them. It's filled in the spaces between them, the places where words and deeds always seemed to fall short.

He knows that Sam is getting better at reading him through the bond and there have been odd moments when Dean has caught _something_ trickling back from Sam. Dean still can't decide whether that comforts or terrifies him. He's not sure he's ready for Sam to see more than Dean wants to show him. But he can't deny that the bond has been damned useful and the closeness it brings isn't unwelcome. It's helped dim the fear that Sam's going to leave him again. He doesn't wake up, wondering if Sam is still going to be there because all he has to do is concentrate and he can feel Sam's presence. He hasn't told Sam this yet, though he knows it's only going to be a matter of time before Sam realizes, if he hasn't already. But Dean needs time to get used to the idea, because he knows as soon as he does tell Sam, Sam is going to want to practice, to test the bond, to push as far as he can and Dean's not ready to deal with the potential ramifications of that just yet.

They drive back to the motel room in comfortable silence. Dean is stuffed full of good food and decent beer and he's feeling mellow and relaxed. When they get back to the room, he stretches out on the bed, intending to chill for a few minutes. The next thing he knows is Sam pulling his boots off, then climbing into bed, curling around Dean and dragging a blanket over them both.

He wakes some time in the night, tangled between the sheets and Sam and unbearably hot. He manages to wriggle out from Sam's arms and the bed clothes. He heads for the fridge, grabbing a bottle of water, which he drinks while watching Sam shift and snuffle into the pillow. He contemplates getting his phone and gathering some future blackmail material, but in the end decides it's too much effort. He finishes his drink and returns to bed, stripping out of everything but his boxers before sliding back under the sheets, enjoying the contrast between the cool cotton and the warmth of Sam's skin.

****

The sound of running water wakes Sam and he takes a second to stretch, feeling his joints stretching and clicking into place. He thinks about joining Dean in the shower, but he's too comfortable where he is. He sprawls out on his stomach, head pillowed on his hands.

He dozes, dimly aware of the shower shutting off, then a little while later he hears the bathroom door open. He's too comfortable and drowsy to bother moving, though he can hear Dean's moving around the room. He half hopes that if he stays put, maybe Dean will come back to bed. Dean moves closer to the bed and Sam thinks for a minute that he's going to get his wish, only to end up with a wet towel draped over his head.

"Fuck. Dean..."

He pulls the soaking wet towel off his head, sits up and glares at Dean, who's buttoning up his jeans and looking far too smug. Sam throws the towel at him, but Dean dodges, smirking and the towel lands on the floor with a faint splat.

"Come on, Sammy, I'd have thought you'd be itching to get going. Sooner we visit the places where the victims were found, the sooner you can go visit the museum."

"Well, yeah. But did you have to dump your towel on me?"

Dean just grins. That smile is distracting enough at the best of times, but when Dean's shirtless, jeans riding low enough on his hips that Sam’s certain he’s not wearing anything underneath, it's downright fucking indecent. Dean turns away and Sam takes a slightly unsteady breath, then heads for the bathroom.

“You better have left me some hot water…”

“Early birds get the hot water, Sammy. Lay-a-bouts take what’s left.” Dean is entirely too fucking smug for this time of day. Normally, he’s not a morning person and frankly, Sam’s beginning to think he prefers grumpy morning Dean to smug and cheerful morning Dean.

He turns back to tell his brother he’s a asshole, but instead he catches sight of Dean checking and loading a gun before tucking it into the waistband of his jeans. He’s still shirtless and damn if there isn’t something really hot about that. Sam nearly slams the bathroom door shut to block out the sight. He really doesn’t need to start discovering new kinks right now.

He leans his head against the bathroom tiles. He still finds the change in their relationship strange sometimes, apparent gun kink aside. The dichotomy between Dean's ability to act like a bored twelve year old and the entirely adult passion he can evoke in Sam is jarring, even now, and Sam can't deny that there are still moments, like this one, when he wonders what the hell they're doing.

Then he looks at Dean, really looks, and sees the way his brother smiles a little more, the way the fine lines at the corners of his eyes have smoothed out, the way that invisible burden he always seemed to carry on his shoulders appears to have lifted. Even if he didn't want Dean as much as he does, he'd willingly give him this and it still wouldn't be enough to repay everything that Dean's done, every time that Dean's put Sam's needs and wants ahead of his own, every time Dean has taken on the role of surrogate parent, teacher, protector, without being asked and mostly without complaint.

But it's not a twisted sense of duty that makes Sam's pulse race and his cock twitch at the thought of Dean, barefoot and half naked, skin still damp from his shower. It might be twisted, though Sam's not even sure about that these days, but this is more than a sense of obligation. He never, in his wildest dreams, ever imagined that he and Dean would end up like this. His dreams for the future, when he'd dared allow himself to dream, had involved a wife and kids and a safe job that didn't involve hunting or demons or things that went bump in the night. In some ways, losing that idealistic fantasy had hurt almost as much as losing Jess.

Finding Dean again, as a brother, has helped him begin to soothe the jagged edges of that loss, allowed him to take strength and comfort from the reassuring familiarity, despite his anger at being dragged back to hunting and his determination to keep Dean and the life he thought he'd left at arms length. Finding Dean as a lover has brought some kind of meaning and hope back into his life. He knows now that it's not about the hunts and the monsters; it's about the two of them. It’s about the life they can build for themselves.

He snorts, certain Dean would mock him relentlessly if he ever admitted to such thoughts. He’s equally certain that Dean feels the same way, even if he’d rather cut off his right hand than admit it.

Despite Dean’s words, there’s plenty of hot water left, just as there always is. Sam lets the warmth of the water soothe him. He’s not looking forward to checking out the murder scenes, but Dean's right. Sooner or later they're going to have to go to the museum and that Sam is looking forward to.

It’s been a long time since he’s been to a museum and he’s hoping he’ll get a chance to have a look around. Providing of course he can find something else for Dean to do, because Dean tends to find museums dull and Sam’s lost count of the number of museums and libraries they’ve been kicked out of because Dean got bored. When Dean gets bored, he has a tendency to get inventively destructive.

It’s always frustrated Sam that his brother doesn’t share his love of books and learning. It’s not that Dean doesn’t have the brains, because Sam knows he does, it’s just that Dean has never seen the point of learning or school unless it’s directly related to hunting. It's one more difference that Sam's learning to work around.

By the time he's finished his shower and returned to the bedroom, towel around his hips, Dean's dressed and sitting at the tiny table, sharpening his favourite knife with a small whetstone. Sam drags on his boxers and pauses, jeans in hand, watching the rhythmic movements of Dean's hand. It's such a familiar sound, and it's comforting. Some people do crosswords or read a book; Dean passes the time by cleaning his guns, or sharpening his knives. It makes Sam nostalgic and just a little melancholy. It's somehow symbolic of everything that Dean is, of the life he's led and as much as Sam loves his brother the way he is, it makes him just a little sad that Dean never really had a choice about his future. And that despite that, his brother honestly, truly cares about what he does. Instead of resentment, Dean's driven by a burning need to protect others from the pain and loss that he's suffered.

"Hey, Sam. You OK?" He can feel a hint of worry through the bond and he realizes that he's been standing there, dressed in nothing but boxers, jeans in one hand, staring at Dean sharpening the knife for a good few minutes. He mentally shakes himself.

"Yeah. Just thinking, I guess."

Dean cocks an eyebrow in the way that has always made Sam grind his teeth. "Must have been some deep thoughts. You looked like you'd completely zoned out there."

Sam shrugs, not really wanting to get into a discussion about his thoughts.

"Just need some coffee."

Dean gives him a look then, the patented 'I don't believe you, but I'm going to let it drop for now' look. It's slightly less irritating than the eyebrow, but not by much.

Sam finishes dressing, trying to shake the melancholy that seems to have taken hold. He reminds himself that he can't change the past and now he has a future to look forward to, a future he wants, for the first time since he lost Jess.

They head out for coffee and breakfast with Dean still shooting Sam the occasional worried look. He watches Dean order pancakes and proceed to cover them in syrup and butter. The distracting sight of Dean licking syrup from his knife helps settle Sam, chasing some of the jarring sadness away.


	2. Chapter 2

By the time they leave, he can barely remember why he was unsettled. He's full of coffee and decent food, he's watched Dean do obscene things to cutlery and their waitress was ninety if she was a day, so he hasn't had to put up with anyone trying to flirt with his brother.

He slides into the passenger seat of the car and the fact that Dean has once again taken over the driving still makes Sam smile to himself. Dean doesn't refer to the car as his baby, doesn't touch it with quite the same reverence he had for the old car, but he still takes care of it, still prefers to wash and wax it by hand and that makes Sam ridiculously pleased. Washing the car together has become one of their new rituals, one of the many little things that have changed from before they became lovers. Just thinking that word still evokes a strange mix of guilt, shame, desire and illicit thrill. Sometimes Sam finds himself watching Dean doing something utterly innocuous and repeating the word to himself, over and over. So far, it still has the same kick it had the first time he thought it.

They head for the scene of the most recent murder.

"So, what happened to this girl?" Dean glances over. Sam doesn't have much information, but he stretches over and pulls the newspaper reports he'd printed off from the pile of papers on the back seat.

"Her name was Susan Atkins, she was 24 and a research assistant at the museum. Apparently she was found, five days ago, spread over her own dinning room table, brain turned to mush and organs left sitting in Tupperware containers from her kitchen, all except for her stomach, which the police didn't find at the scene."

"Jesus. That's gross." Dean pulls a face.

"Yeah."

They flash fake ID at the guard the apartment lobby. Despite the fact there's been a death only five nights ago in the building, he looks bored and barely even glances at them. They take the elevator up to the fifth floor and Susan's room is almost directly opposite.

Dean stands guard while Sam picks the lock then they duck quickly under the tape and Dean closes the door quietly behind them. The apartment is small: living room, kitchen, bathroom and two bedrooms.

Dean moves away from the door, heading towards the dining room table.

"She live alone?"

"No. She shared the apartment with another research assistant, Mel Banks. She found Susan's body when she came home from vacation."

"Great welcome home."

Sam rolls his eyes.

"Where's the roommate now?"

"Still in the hospital, under sedation, as far as I can tell."

Dean nods. He's standing in front of the table and even from where he's standing by the door, Sam can see the stains marring the table's glass surface, the dark puddles on the carpet. The room smells of blood and fear and death, bitter and sweet at the same time. It makes the hairs on the back of Sam's neck stand on end, no matter how many times he's smelt it.

He moves into the room. It's a mess, books knocked from the shelves, furniture overturned and broken.

Dean turns away from the table, eyes scanning the rest of the room. He moves towards the door nearest to him. Sam watches him for a moment, then he turns to the kitchen area. It's as trashed as the rest of the room, broken glass and utensils strewn across the floor. He reluctantly heads over to the table. It's a grotesque sight. He can see the outline of Susan Atkin's body, vaguely defined by dried blood. There are also several different sized square shapes, presumably where the containers holding her organs sat. He turns away, but the barest glint of _something_ in one of the red-brown puddles on the floor catches his eye.

He can hear Dean opening another door, then moving around. Sam crawls half under the table, trying to curb his revulsion at the smell of old, stale blood. It takes him a few minutes to prise loose the object. It's covered with dried blood that flakes off as he rubs, revealing a small amulet in the shape of some kind of beetle.

"Whatcha find?"

Dean's voice startles him and he barely manages to avoid cracking his skull on the underside of the table. He crawls back out to the sound of Dean's laughter.

"Jerk."

Dean just grins at him. Sam stands, trying to resist the urge to wipe his hands on his jeans. His fingers feel sticky with the dried blood and his stomach twists. He can still vividly remember the feeling of Dean's blood drying on his hands as he sat in the hospital, barely aware of the doctors and nurses fussing over him after the crash, terrified that he was going to lose his brother. He can remember staring at his hands, thinking that there was so much blood, too much blood.

"Hey, Sam. You ok?" Dean's hand curls around Sam's and for a moment Sam has the irrational fear that if Dean touches him, it'll be his blood on Sam's hands again. He shivers, a cold chill sending goose bumps over his skin.

"Sam? Come on, you're starting to worry me. Talk to me, damnit. Christ, your hands are _freezing_." Dean right in front of Sam now, and he looks really worried.

"I just... I... At the hospital, after the crash, I remember there was so much blood. Your blood, all over my hands. It scared me, how much there was."

"Sammy. It's ok. I'm here." Dean keeps hold of Sam's hand but cups Sam's face with his other hand.

Sam takes a breath and leans into Dean, trusting his brother to support him. This is more than delayed shock, more than just the memory of Dean’s blood draining away. It feels like a memory, but he’s just a little afraid that this is another premonition of some kind. He lets Dean wrap an arm around his waist and lead him across the room, before settling him on the couch, Dean crouched in front on Sam.

"Is this what was bothering you earlier?"

"No. I mean, I don't think so. I don't really know. It was just... It just hit me, the memory, you know?"

"Yeah, I know." Sam can see the distant look on Dean's face and he can tell by the emotions filtering through the bond that Dean remembers his own break down after Sam had bought the new Impala.

Sam leans forward and Dean meets him halfway. It's a chaste kiss, nothing more than comfort and reassurance, but it seems to soothe both of them, nonetheless.

Sam pulls back a little, and rests his forehead against Dean's, looking down at Dean's hand, still holding Sam's. He takes a slow, deep breath.

"Did you find anything in the rest of the apartment?"

"No, nothing. The other rooms haven't been disturbed. Whatever happened, happened in here." Sam can tell that Dean is deliberately _not_ asking about what Sam found under the table.

"I found this. Don't know if it's anything important, but I think it's Egyptian."

Dean takes the small gold trinket and turns it over in his fingers a couple of times. He rubs at the dried blood still clinging to it and Sam watches the dull brown flakes drifting to the floor and tries not to think about the past.

"We'll take it back with us, you never know, it might be important." Dean tucks the gold beetle in his pocket and stands. He offers his hand to Sam. It's a silly, meaningless gesture, but it still sends a tingle of warmth through Sam.

They leave the apartment and head back the way they came. As they're riding the elevator Sam notices Dean's hand in his jacket pocket, he looks as though he's still fiddling with the trinket Sam found, absentmindedly. It's not like Dean and Sam's about to say something when Dean seems to realize what he's doing and pulls his hand out of his pocket.

"Why don't you see if you can get Sparky on the door to talk to you about what's happened, see if you can find out if anything odd has happened recently."

"What are you going to do?"

Dean shrugs.

"I'm going to have a look around the building, see if I can find anything the police missed."

When the elevator reaches the ground floor, Sam heads for the security guard and Dean heads for the service stairs.

The guard has absolutely nothing useful to add. He didn't see anything odd, before, during or after the murder. After spending 15 minutes getting nothing but monosyllabic answers, Sam's come to the conclusion that someone could commit a murder right under the guard's nose and he wouldn't notice.

He leaves the building and goes looking for Dean. He rounds the corner of the block and spots his brother talking to a policewoman. She's petite, blonde and pretty. She looks more like one of the endless parade of women they've seen in every bar in every damned state they've ever been to than a police office.

She also looks exactly like Dean's type of woman.

She lays a hand on Dean's arm and even though Dean leans away from her, Sam can't help feeling a stab of jealousy; of possessiveness. Sam can't quite decide if she's flirting with his brother, or whether she's just touchy-feely, but either way, it makes him uncomfortable.

It's not the first time someone's hit on Dean since they became lovers, but it's the first time that Sam wasn't around; the first time it's been someone who so perfectly fits the mold of so many of Dean's conquests. After all, he and Dean have made no promises. Hell, they haven't even discussed it. Sam's taken it for granted, read fidelity and faithfulness into Dean's conspicuous lack of anything like real interest in women and his agreeing to the tattoos and the bond. Now he's not so sure, caught by that lingering hint of insecurity, of uncertainty. He hangs back, slowing down as he approaches them, unsure of what to say, how to act.

He's almost ready to retreat the way he's come when Dean looks over and catches his eye. Sam's so sure he'd see that familiar look of 'not _now_ , Sam, I'm trying to get lucky' that it takes him a second or two to realize that what he's actually seeing is a look of relief. He has to reign in the desire to laugh. There's a perverse kind of irony in the fact that _Dean_ actually wants to be rescued from a woman.

He stops next to Dean and the police woman's smile falters a little.

"Officer Brown, this is Sam. Sam, this is Officer Brown." Dean takes a step towards Sam, standing just inside his personal space, almost close enough to touch and he turns towards Sam when he speaks. His body language is subtle, but Sam's spent so much time with Dean over the years that he can read it clearly. Dean is feeling uneasy. Yet he still doesn't shake Officer Brown's hand from his arm.

"Sam." Her voice clearly implies that she can't quite figure out their relationship.

"Officer Brown."

"Hi."

Dean grins at Sam, but it's a fake grin, a show for their audience.

"I was just explaining how interested you were in the Egyptian exhibit." He nods towards her, but doesn't look away from Sam. "She was telling me about all the weird stuff that's been going on."

"Oh?" Sam plasters what he hopes is a convincing look of surprise on his face, although the smirk teasing the corners of Dean's mouth implies that he hasn't entirely succeeded. "Weird? How?" He glances at Officer Brown, catching a contemplative look on her face. He nudges Dean's foot with his own. He knows Dean's making a statement, but they can't afford to piss the local cops off before they've even had a chance to investigate what's going on. Dean looks confused, then blinks and turns back to the policewoman.

Her eyes flick from Dean to Sam, and back again. Sam doesn't know whether he hopes she'll write it off as her imagination, or whether she'll figure out that they're lovers. He didn't miss the fact that when Dean introduced them, he didn't mention that they were brothers.

"Things going missing, some, ah, unusual deaths. There seems to be some connection to the museum and the exhibit."

"Yeah, apparently some people are talking about the exhibit being cursed. The museum is worried people'll stop visiting."

"Really? So how are these things connected to the exhibit?"

"Well, two museum employees have died recently, that tends to make people nervous. And there have been rumors of some...disturbances at the museum. Things being moved, strange noises, lights going on and off, that sort of thing. The usual nonsense you get when people are spooked by a sudden death. It’s either overactive imaginations, or someone playing a tasteless practical joke."

"Or you've got ghosts." Sam has to resist the urge to roll his eyes at his brother.

"Ghosts? I'm sure there's a far more reasonable, logical explanation for what's happening."

"Of course." Dean smiles at her, but his eyes are cool. Officer Brown smiles back at him and slides the hand still resting on Dean's arm down the leather of his jacket. She brushes his nails over the back of Dean's hand and Sam's notices the way Dean curls his fingers, as if making sure she doesn't touch him too much. Sam's certain she doesn't see it, but he can spot the tension in Dean's posture.

Sam glances at Dean, concerned and a little confused, but Dean's face is giving away nothing but polite interest.

"We'll bear that in mind, although I don't think even the threat of a curse is enough to stop Sammy here from visiting the museum." Officer Brown gives Sam a considering look.

"It's been a pleasure to meet you, Officer."

She looks a little suspicious, but she doesn't say anything, just nods and walks away from them, around the corner of the apartment block.

As soon as she's out of sight, Dean lets go of Sam's arm and shudders a little. Sam's astonished. He's never seen that kind of reaction from Dean towards _anything_ before, let alone a woman who a few short months ago Dean would have been trying to get into bed.

"What's that all about?"

"What's what?"

"The shivers. The fact I've never seen you look so uncomfortable around a woman. _That_."

Dean shrugs, clearly not wanting to discuss whatever the hell is going on.

"I don't know man. She was just... She gave me the creeps, you know?"

"She gave you the _creeps_? Dean, since when do you get the 'creeps'? Over a _woman_. Over a woman who is **exactly** your type."

"She is not my type." The offended look on Dean's face is hilarious, especially as Sam's so obviously right.

"Oh, come on. She is." He can't help pushing, needing to know that Dean doesn't want her, doesn't want anyone but Sam. He hates his need for reassurance, but he can't help it.

Dean shoves his hands in the pockets of his jeans and looks back the way Officer Brown had gone.

"OK. She might have a passing resemblance to _some_ of the women I've dated." He glares at the snort that Sam doesn't even try to contain. "But that woman... She's just... Wrong, somehow. Like, our kind of wrong, wrong." He looks frustrated at not being able to explain it any better.

Sam's concerned now. Dean might not have gotten the psychic ability in the family, but when it comes to things supernatural, he really does have a hunter's instinct. If he thinks there's something wrong with the woman, then there's a damned good chance that there is. He can't help but wonder at the strength of Dean's reaction though. He wonders if it's another instance of the bond working both ways now.

"Our kind of wrong? You think she's involved?" He can't keep the note of surprise out of his voice, however hard he tries.

"Forget it. It's probably nothing." Dean turns away, heading back towards their car. Sam resists the urge to roll his eyes. Dean can be so sensitive to any perceived criticism, so worried Sam's going to mock him for it.

He follows his brother, falling into step, not quite close enough for his shoulder to brush Dean's, though he wants that touch, that connection.

"Wait up Dean. I'm just trying to understand here. You think she's more than she seems?"

Dean doesn't look at him, just shrugs again. "Maybe. She just made me kinda uneasy, that's all."

"Uneasy?"

"When she touched me, it made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up." Just hearing Dean say that makes Sam's own skin prickle.

"You think she's going to be trouble?"

Dean shrugs.

"Don't know. But I do think we should try to keep out of her way, at least until we know what's going on here and whether she really is involved."

He turns and looks back the way they’ve come then shakes himself, as if trying to throw off his unease.

“Come on, let’s get a coffee, then we can go check out the other crime scenes.”

Sam nods. Dean’s unease is catching and he has to clamp down hard on a shiver of his own. He can’t help but hope they don’t meet Officer Brown again, although he has the sinking feeling that they will, one way or another.

 

****

By the time they reach the coffee shop, Dean seems to have shrugged off his earlier unease, though Sam's not entirely convinced. He can feel some lingering sense of apprehension filtering through the bond, though whether that's due to whatever Dean felt from Officer Brown, or whether he's picking up on Sam's own unease, Sam can't tell.

He leaves Dean to find a table while he gets them coffee. He doesn't even need to ask Dean what he wants, he knows how Dean takes his coffee; black, strong and without sugar. When he was younger and less charitable about his big brother, Sam used to think that the reason Dean drank his coffee like that was because that was how Dad drank his. Now Sam knows that it's an inevitable consequence of living in an endless procession of cheap motel rooms and having a job that meant popping out to the store to pick up sugar and cream were right at the bottom of the list of priorities. He also knows that Dean learned to drink his coffee like that so that Sam could always have sugar and creamer, because Sam _hates_ black, unsweetened coffee.

It's yet another one of Dean's many ways of showing how he cares. Sam relishes each and every one of them now, tries not to take them for granted in the way he used to. He's come to the conclusion that not saying the words doesn't mean Dean doesn't feel them. He realizes that Dean has learned not to say too much, in case those words are used against him, so he shows his feelings in other ways. That's another scar, another insecurity that Sam lays at John's door, because he knows what their father can be like when he's angry. He can be vicious and cruel and he can twist your own words until you don't know what you're arguing for.

He grabs a pecan Danish along with the coffees, knowing it's one of Dean's favourites. Dean's grin and the way he devours the pastry with relish makes Sam grin back, even though the sight of Dean licking icing from his fingers has Sam looking away again quickly. That sight _still_ isn't getting old. When he looks back a minute or so later, Dean's demolished the Danish, and is washing it down with coffee. And Sam gets that sense that, even if it's just for a moment, Dean's truly, honestly happy. There's the faintest wash of bone deep contentment that seeps through the bond and though it's rare, every time it happens, it feels like a revelation.

There's a flake of pastry on Dean's chin and Sam has to resist the urge to lean forwards and lick it off. He reminds himself that they're in a public place. Instead he reaches out a hand and carefully wipes the crumb away. Dean's eyes widen, just a little, and his lips part and Sam wishes that it wasn't getting easier and easier to read Dean through the bond because the flare of desire that runs through his brother makes him want to kiss Dean and to hell with however is watching.

He sits back, and folds his hands carefully around his coffee cup, using the almost scalding heat to distract him from thoughts of licking the taste of pecan icing from Dean's lips. He looks at his coffee, watching the faint trails of steam swirling in the air, trying to pretend that he isn't thinking about fucking his brother.

"So..." Dean stops and clears his throat, and knowing that Dean is feeling the same thing is both relief and torture at the same time. "So, did you find out anything useful from the security guard?"

"Nothing at all."

"Damn. Well, let's hope that the other scenes or the museum give us some clues. Where are we heading next?"

Sam pulls out the notes he's made.

"Well, you want to start with the murder before Susan Atkins, or go back to the first murder and work forwards?"

Dean sips his coffee and shrugs.

"Might as well start with the first one. Who was that, the night guard at the museum or something?"

"Yeah. Todd Willis. He lived at a motel towards the edge of town."

"Fine, let's get going then, you can fill me in on the rest of the details on the way."

They grab some travel lids for their coffees and Sam directs Dean to the motel. The place is run down and depressing. Sam's seen more than his fair share of motels like this, but he couldn't imagine having to live here for more than a couple of nights. As unsettling at it was to move around so much when they were kids, he thinks it's better than this.

The guard had been killed six weeks ago in the single room he called home. The motel owner was only too happy to let them look around the room for a handful of cash.

The room is dark and cramped. There’s a single bed, a closet with a door hanging half off, a chest of drawers, a small table and a single wooden chair. There’s no shade on the light bulb and cobwebs span the corners of the room.

Sam eases the closet door open carefully. A museum security guard uniform still hangs in the closet, along with a few other clothes; faded t-shirts, jeans, socks, pants. The few possessions that the police haven't taken and the owner hasn't sold don't tell them anything about the man who once lived here, let alone about why he was dead, or how he died. There are no pictures, no photos or ornaments of any kind. A book rests on the table, dog-eared and well worn. Dean picks it up and from the cover, Sam guesses it’s a thriller of some kind. That and a pair of spectacles on the top of the chest of drawers are the only things that even hint at what the guy might have been like when he was alive.

There's a large, rust brown stain on the carpet by the bed, but unlike Susan Atkins' apartment, there are no other signs that a violent death occurred here. Sam wonders if the guy even put up a fight, or whether he gave in quietly, secretly relieved to escape a life of struggling from one day to the next with no hope, nothing to look forward to, just a lifetime of regrets and a hand to mouth existence.

Dean’s standing in the middle of the forlorn room, looking down at the blood stain. He seems distracted, almost pensive and Sam isn't sure if it's because he's still unsettled about the policewoman or something else.

“Dean?” His brother doesn’t move, just keeps staring at the stain.

“Find anything?”

“No.”

“Let’s go, there’s nothing here either.” Dean walks across the room and Sam follows, biting back his questions.

It's a relief to leave the dismal, depressing room and walk back out into the bright autumn sunlight. Dean stands next to the car for a minute, looking back at the room and now Sam can feel through the bond what his brother is thinking about. He's wondering what he'll leave behind when he dies, if his life will seem as insubstantial and insignificant. Sam doesn't know how to tell him that Dean will leave behind so much more than mere _things_. He'll leave behind the legacy of the lives he's saved, the deaths he's prevented.

He wants to reach out and reassure his brother, wants to find some way of showing Dean he’s so much more than he thinks, but before he can figure out what to say, Dean turns away from the room and slides into the car. Sam hesitates, then he joins Dean in the car and instead of the words he can't seem find, he just rests his hand on Dean's knee, trying to express himself, trying to read his brother. Sam can't sense anything through the bond at all, but though Dean doesn't look at him, a little of the tension bleeds from his body. Sam is still getting used to the Dean that's emerged from the car crash of six months ago. This Dean is a little more thoughtful, a little more aware of his own mortality.

Dean takes a breath, holding it for a second, then breathing out slowly before speaking.

“It’s past lunchtime. Let’s grab something to eat and see if we can figure out if there’s a connection between the victims; anything that might give us a clue as to why they’re being killed at least.”

“You don’t want to look at the other scene?”

All he gets is a half shrug and then Dean turns the key in the ignition. Sam isn’t sorry to be leaving the motel behind them.

“Dean?”

“We can do the other scene and the museum tomorrow. I want to look over the reports and stuff again first, see if we can figure out what’s doing this.”

“You think it is something supernatural now?”

Dean looks uncomfortable for a moment and Sam wonders exactly what’s going on. It’s obviously that Dean’s been picking up on something all day; the policewoman, his strange mood at the motel.

“Maybe.”

“Dean, what’s going on? You’ve been acting odd all day.” He knows the second he says it that it’s the wrong thing to say, but the words are out before he can stop them.

“Nothing.” Dean gets that defensive look Sam knows and hates. Then Dean shrugs again. “It’s just that _thing_ , with Officer Brown. I guess it’s just made me a bit jumpy.”

It’s an admission that Sam would never have expected to hear. He knows there’s more, can feel through the bond that Dean’s holding back, but he bites his tongue and resolves to let Dean tell him in his own time. Sometimes, it’s best to just let Dean work things out in his own head first.

The rest of the drive back to their hotel is done in silence. Sam really, really wants to ask Dean about his reaction to Officer Brown, but he knows his brother and if he pushes before Dean's ready to tell him, he'll just clam up and Sam will never know. So he bides his time, despite the fact that he's burning with the need to know whether this is something to do with the bond, or whether it's just Dean. He has to admit that part of his curiosity is driven by the need to know whether he's not the only freak in the family. Somehow being cursed with the visions and stuff would be easier to take if he knew that he wasn't the only one to carry that kind of burden. He knows it’s selfish, but he can't help it.

He drags out the laptop when they get back to the room and starts searching for as much information as he can find on Ancient Egypt and the little gold trinket he found. Dean channel surfs for a while, finally settling on a rock music channel, just before Sam is about to threaten to beat him to death with the remote control.

About an hour or so later, Sam's got a crick in his neck and his legs are aching from sitting cross-legged on the bed. He looks over and discovers that Dean's asleep. It's only early afternoon, barely past lunchtime, but Sam closes the laptop quietly and puts it on the table. He pulls his sweatshirt off and climbs gently back onto the bed. Dean makes a soft noise and turns onto his side. He usually ends up on his back eventually, but he always starts off curled up on his right side. Sam curls around him, resting a hand on Dean's hip. Dean shifts, body moving until he's pressed against Sam.

Sam doesn't intend to sleep, he just wants to be close to Dean, to feel the connection that always hums gently between them when they're actually touching. He watches dust motes dance and shimmer in the afternoon sun.

It's not until he wakes slowly that he even realizes he feel asleep at all. Somehow they've reversed positions, so that Sam's on his side and Dean is half draped over him. Judging by the light, Sam guesses that it's late afternoon. He feels drowsy and lethargic. He's too hot, Dean's radiating heat like a heavy human electric blanket, but he can't quite seem to muster up the energy to move. Half asleep and half awake he remembers something someone once said about there being moments when time seems to slow down, like a herd of turtles stampeding through molasses. The thought still makes him grin, but he knows now what they meant.

Since he and Dean became lovers, he's had a lot of those kind of slow motion moments and he's tried to memorise every single one, tried to store them up like the rare and previous things they are.

He wriggles a little and Dean moves, pulling back a little so that he isn't lying half on top of Sam. Sam turns until he's nearly nose to nose with Dean. He watches lashes flutter gently on freckled cheeks, watches as sleepy eyes open halfway. Dean's barely awake, but he reaches out, one lightly clenched fist resting on Sam's chest, over his heart.

"Go 'sleep Sam. Plenty of time yet." His voice is raspy and Sam’s not sure Dean’s awake enough to know what he’s saying, but it doesn’t matter when Dean’s hand opens, lying flat on Sam's chest for a minute, as if feeling for his heart beat, then sliding until he curls it around Sam's neck, and tugs him closer.

They share a short, light kiss, barely there and when Sam pulls back a little, Dean's eyes are closed and his breathing has evened out again. He feels ridiculously happy and he presses his own hand against Dean's chest and lets the steady _thump-thump-thump_ vibrating through his fingers lull him back to sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

The next time he wakes, its dark outside. He looks at his watch and realizes that it's still relatively early and that if they get up now, they've got time for dinner. They're still in the same position they fell asleep, although as if in response to the fact that Sam's awake, Dean rolls onto his back.

Sam is haunted by a vague and strange sense of urgency, though he doesn't know why. They haven't learned enough to figure out who or what is behind the killings, or how they're doing it, let alone have any idea how, when or where to stop another killing, if there's going to be one.

Dean stretches, t-shirt riding up and Sam forgets all about the hunt, any thoughts of mummies and Books of the Dead eclipsed by the desire to run his tongue over the sharp lines of his brother's hipbones. He reaches out and runs his fingertips over Dean's stomach, dipping just below the waistband of his jeans. Dean squirms a little and makes a noise in his throat. Sam wriggles closer, until he can press kisses against the soft skin of Dean's neck. His lips catch on stubble as he leaves little bites along Dean's jaw line and his hand slips beneath soft, faded denim.

The arch and the soft groan encourage Sam to bite a little harder, to press his fingers against the line of Dean's cock, stiffening beneath his boxers and Sam's insistently caressing hand. He licks up and down Dean's throat, tasting aftershave and sweat. He moves his hand, slipping under cloth until his hand closes around hot flesh.

He's totally unprepared for the way Dean's body comes alive underneath his touch. Hips arch up and he feels as much as hears the way Dean's breath catches in his throat. The next second he's on his back and Dean's looking down at him, eyes wide awake and as dark as night, and as deep as sin. Then Dean's kissing him, slow and intense and dear God, it's like drowning and being saved all at once. There isn't anything that compares to this and Sam knows that as long as he lives, he'll never be able to give this up.

Dean doesn't seem to want to stop kissing him, even to undress, and getting out of their clothes is a tangle of cloth and elbows and knees and bruises. Sam has no damned idea how Dean manages to find lube, but he does. They're somehow frantic and languid at the same time. It's so Dean, a mixture of contrasts and contradictions wrapped in one package.

There's virtually no prep, just the ache and burn as Dean slides into him, slow but relentless and Sam bites his lip, caught between agony and ecstasy. Dean's careful but it's still almost too much; too much sensation, too much emotion. Dean stops, pressed as deep inside him as he can get and Sam wraps his hands around Dean's biceps. He can feel the strain in Dean's body, the need to move, to drive into Sam, to connect. He takes a breath, and flexes his hips, feeling the ache deep inside, even as he feels Dean's pleasure in the way he screws his face up, in the gasp that escapes, through the bond, stronger between them than ever when they’re like this, joined so intimately, so completely..

Then Dean's moving, fucking Sam in earnest, hard and fast and without pause. Sam can barely catch his breath. He manages to unwrap one hand from Dean's arm and moves it down his body. He doesn't take hold of his cock, instead he reaches further back, long fingers sliding down, past his balls, until he can feel where they're joined, can feel Dean's cock as it fucks him. He can feel his own body twitch and his muscles tighten at the feel. Dean shudders and groans, slamming into Sam so hard it makes Sam shout, pain shooting like lightening through the pleasure. He brings his other hand down and grips his own cock, fucking his fist even as Dean takes him with ruthless determination and total concentration. It’s still overwhelming, to be the focus of that intensity, to be the center of Dean’s world, to know that in this moment, he’s the _only_ thing that Dean’s thinking about.

His fingers slide against Dean's cock as he withdraws, and he can feel the stretched muscle of his own body when his brother drives back into him. It's forbidden and so utterly erotic that Sam knows he's not going to need much help to come.

When he comes, his orgasm is strong and he shakes from the pleasure of it. He's barely over the sensation when Dean slams into him one last time, hips stuttering as he comes, cursing under his breath, sweat dripping from his body and mingling with Sam's.

"Jesus-fucking- _Christ_." Dean's voice is harsh, raw and he sounds as though he's the one who's been fucked and it really should worry Sam just how satisfied he feels at the knowledge that no-one else gets to hear that voice anymore. This is his. This is the one part of Dean that he doesn't have to share.

****

Neither of them are particularly interested in going out to eat or drink tonight, so they agree to get take out. They argue without heat over whose turn it is to go out to get the food, but in the end Sam relents and grabs the car keys, grumbling all the way.

As soon as he's gone, Dean heads for the bathroom. The bathroom is hot and humid, steam curling around like mist, just the way he likes it. He lets the warm water soothe his body and mind. The unease from earlier has almost vanished, gradually erased by sleep and the pleasure of taking Sam, of the closeness, the bond between them.

The visit to the security guard's motel room had been depressing. Dean couldn't help but wonder if when he dies, the things he leaves behind will be as meagre and as pathetic. Beyond his clothes and his weapons, he doesn't have much in the way of possessions; a pack of cards, his own personal journal, a couple of pictures, one of mom, dad and himself and one of Sammy as a messy haired teenager - not quite the chubby child he'd been, but not yet the tall, confident adult he'd become, a simple gold necklace with a small heart pendant. It had been a birthday present for mom and he could still remember dad taking him out to choose it a couple of weeks before her birthday. He never got a chance to give it to her and he's kept it ever since, tucked away in his bag, still in its gift box.

He tips his head back, letting the spray from the shower fall on his face. If there's a tear or two, they're lost in the water, washed away like so many others he's shed over the years. Dean knows that Sam's always assumed that the reason Dean spends so long in the shower is an over active sex drive. He's been right about half the time. He rolls his neck and shoulders, trying to loosen the tension in his shoulders that threatens to become a nagging headache.

There's still a sense of discomfort in the back of his mind. He can't forget the way just talking to the police woman made his skin prickle. He's never had such an instant and strong reaction to anyone as he had with her. And much as he hates to admit it, Sam's right, in another lifetime the blonde would have been _exactly_ his type. These days though, even if her touch hadn't had the hair on the back of his neck standing up, he wouldn't have been interested.

He wonders if he should have freaked out at some point; even by Winchester standards, sleeping with your brother isn't anywhere remotely near normal. But he's long since accepted that normal has no place in his life and if not being normal gives him this, gives him _Sam_ then he can honestly say he has never missed it less. There's a comfort, a _peace_ in his relationship with his brother that he's never felt before and he has no interest in sleeping around these days. He feels as though he should miss it and sometimes, the fact that he doesn't scares him just a little. He's invested so much of himself in Sammy, in what they share. Bad enough when they were just brothers. Now that they're lovers, to lose this would probably destroy him. He wonders if Sam knows just how desperately Dean needs him and he doesn't know whether the idea that Sam might actually, _finally_ get it fills him with relief or terror.

Either way, he'd had absolutely no interest in Officer Brown, even if she hadn't set off every alarm bell in his head. He still can't pin down what was wrong. It wasn't the usual sense he that something's off, the way he does sometimes on a hunt. This was something else, something deeper and yet less instinctive. For the briefest of moments it didn't feel as though it was his reaction and he has to wonder about the bond. He knows that Sam's better at working the bond thing, but maybe, somehow it's starting to work both ways and instead of just receiving, Sam's somehow projecting _something_ back to Dean. He's not comfortable with that idea and he's seen what the visions and other crap have done to Sam; he's nursed his brother through the blinding migraines and the nausea that accompanies them and he's not keen to be on the receiving end. It worries him that there appears to be some kind of connection between Sam and the demon, because Dean wants that bastard kept as far away from Sam as possible. Dean wants him dead, but not for revenge, he wants him dead because all the time the fucker's walking around he's a threat to Sammy, to Dad. The day after he and Sammy moved past being just brothers, Dean promised himself that one day he's going to have the satisfaction of sending the son of a bitch back to hell for good.

Despite his misgivings about the source of his reaction to Officer Brown, he's a hunter and he's learned the hard way that ignoring gut instinct tends to get you killed real fast. He makes a mental note to check out whether Officer Brown has any connection with the museum or the victims. He's not convinced she's involved, but there's something going on with the blonde. They should probably do some digging on her background, see if they can find anything that might give him a clue.

When the bathroom door opens, sending a cool blast of air over Dean's skin and raising goose-bumps, there's a split second when he's reaching for his gun, resting on the side of the tub, far enough away that it won't get wet, but close enough he can have it in hand within seconds. He recognises the hulking shadow of his brother through the shower curtain and relaxes. He lets his shoulders slump, closing his eyes and turning his face up towards the spray of the shower again.

Sam crowds into the tub behind him, cool fingers gently stroking and kneading Dean's shoulders, working out the knots and the tension. Dean's head drops forwards, chin resting on his chest. He lets Sam work without protest. Sam's seen him broken wide open and he's still here, still Dean's, so letting Sam take care of him like this once in a while isn’t such a big deal any more, though he'd suffer pins in his eyes before he ever let Sam know it. Gentle kisses at the nape of his neck and a soft laugh prove that Sam already knows and damn, he's just too content to care right now.

"Come on you water-baby, dinner's getting cold."

Dean elbows Sam in the ribs, turns awkwardly in the tub and pulls Sam's head down for a slow, gentle kiss before pulling away and stepping out of the tub.

"You better have gotten my chicken satay."

Sam laughs and shakes his head.

"Yeah, I got it, though I've no idea how you can eat that stuff. Chicken and hot peanut butter man? That's just _wrong_."

"It's no worse than that stuff you eat. Those Chinese mushrooms are nasty, slimy little fuckers."

The easy banter with Sam helps him push his jitters to the back of his mind. They sit at the table to eat. Dean licks peanut sauce from his fingers and grins at the way Sam's cheeks flush, just a little. It happens each and every time and Dean is _always_ amused and just a little awed by it.

As they eat, Sam runs through the new information he's managed to find. Dean's amused by the way Sam gestures with his chopsticks as he talks.

"So, that trinket I found in the apartment seems to be a scarab amulet."

"A what?"

"Scarab. It's a kind of beetle. Apparently the ancient Egyptians thought of them as sacred."

Dean represses a shudder. He's never been too keen on bugs and he doesn't get how any culture could possibly view a beetle as sacred.

"So what's it doing in our victim's apartment?"

"Well, the Egyptians used to put various amulets and charms into the wrappings of mummies."

Dean leans back, full of chicken satay and special fried rice and stupidly content with his world at this _particular_ moment. He fiddles with one of the wooden skewers, now picked clean of chicken, snapping it idly into pieces.

"You still think this is a mummy? A real, thousand year old corpse wrapped in bandages and shit?"

Sam shrugs, stirring the remains of his chicken chow mein with his chopsticks.

"I think it's a real possibility."

"Heh. I guess we should visit the museum tomorrow, ask if they're missing a mummy."

Sam rolls his eyes and Dean grins.

"Your sense of humour is just weird, you know that?"

"Yeah, so you tell me. Come on, I think there's a monster movie special on tonight."

"Christ Dean, what is it with you and those movies? Don't you see enough of that shit every day?"

"Nah. Besides, I'm talking about the _real_ thing, the old black and white classics."

Sam groans and makes a show of being disgusted, but Dean isn't fooled. Sam always gripes about Dean's taste in films, but he always stays up to watch the movies with him. It's one more of those things that they've done since they were kids that they've gone back to doing since they've been lovers. Dean's certain there's probably something deep and meaningful about that fact, but when he's stretched out on the bed, propped up on a ridiculous number of cushions and pillows, with Sam lounging beside him and stealing the peanut M&Ms he brought back for Dean, he really doesn't care too much about deep or meaningful.

*****

They grab coffee the next morning on the way to where the last victim was killed. The house is nondescript, set in the middle of an average semi-suburban street. The front lawn is neatly mown and Dean half expects to see roses growing around the front door.

"Where'd this guy die?" He asks Sam as they park.

"His name was Adrian Fuller and he was found in the garage, sprawled across the hood of his car, cut open like the others and missing his stomach."

"Well, whoever or whatever our killer is, he's got a flair for the dramatic. Who found him?"

"His girlfriend, Lisa Stuart, three weeks ago."

"She still living here?"

"No, I think she's gone back to live with her parents in Ohio. Apparently the house hasn't been touched since the police released it."

They walk across the front lawn and duck around the side of the house as quickly and as quietly as possible. It takes no more a few seconds for Sam to pick this lock and they step quickly into a small utility room which leads into the large kitchen.

There's a door to the garage directly opposite and there's only a bolt to open this time.

The other scenes have been relatively clean, in terms of blood and guts, all the gore concentrated in one place. This one looks like the inside of an abattoir. The walls and ceiling are sprayed with blood. The car is no longer there, but there's a large pool of dried blood on the concrete floor. Dean looks around and catches Sam doing the same. It looks as though there's far too much blood to have come from one body, but Dean knows that it's often deceptive and a relatively small amount of blood can create an impressive pool. This time though, he's pretty sure that the guy must have been more or less drained of blood by the time he was found.

"Fuck." Sam half-whispers beside him.

"Yeah." Dean walks gingerly into the garage, though the blood is dried and old. "Our killer made a bit of a mess this time. You think this one went wrong or something?"

"I don't know. I looked through all the information on the victims last night. There doesn't appear to be one thing that they have in common, apart from the fact that they all died in the same way and are missing organs. I don't know whether the fact that this scene is such a mess means anything or not."

Dean walks around the huge stain on the floor, checking the contents of the shelves and work benches. He can hear Sam doing the same over the other side of the room. Dean's almost finished his side when he spots something that looks out of place towards the back of the workbench. It's a small gold trinket, but it's not like the one that Sam found. This one is more like a cross, but with a loop at the top.

"Hey, Sam, I think I found another one of those gold charms you were talking about."

"Where, let me see."

Dean hands it over and watches Sam examine it.

"It's an Ankh."

"Isn't that a symbol of life or fertility, or something?"

"Yeah. I think they used to be included in the mummy wrappings as well."

"Heh. I hate to say it, but your mummy theory is looking more plausible by the minute."

" _Thanks_."

He ignores Sam's sarcasm and takes another look around the garage. It's not hard to imagine what the scene must have looked like when the girlfriend found it. Dean doesn't envy her that experience at all. He looks around the garage again.

"So, what happened here? Looks like this guy was caught by surprise."

"The police think he was grabbed by someone hiding in the garage. They think his neck was broken _after_ whoever killed him had started to open him up."

"Nice. Did the other victims have their necks broken?"

"Yeah."

"Seems like over-kill, why break the guy’s neck when you’re already disembowelling him?”

“No idea.”

“You find anything?"

"No, nothing."

"Well, I don't think there's anything else to learn here. I guess we should go check out the museum."

"OK. I just hope we find something there, because right now we've got a lot of questions and damn few answers."

They leave the house the same way they came in, Dean standing guard while Sam locks the door behind them.

When they reach the car, Dean doesn't miss the fact that Sam heads straight for the passenger door. He knows that Sam felt bad about the car after Dean's initial reaction to it. He'd forced himself to drive again, partly because he was damned if he was going to be defeated by his own fears and partly because, like so many of his other choices in life, he knew it would make Sam happy. He knows that despite the scene they’ve witnessed, besides the lack of clues and leads, Sam’s content and happy right now.

It takes him a good few seconds to realize that the reason he knows how Sam feels is because he can _feel_ it through the bond. The realisation makes his breath catch and his head swim. Sam stops, halfway in the passenger door.

“You ok?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

Sam doesn’t look convinced, but he doesn’t pursue it. He looks at Dean for a second or two, then gets into the car. Dean takes a breath. He knows he should tell Sam, but he needs time to get used to the idea first, time to deal with the knowledge that the bond is changing, developing much faster than he expected. A final breath and then he climbs into the car. All he can do is trust that Sam’s done his research properly and that the bond isn’t going to end up consuming them both.

 

****

Sam can tell that something is bothering Dean, still. It frustrates him that despite everything, despite the bond and the fact that they’re closer than they’ve ever been, Dean still won’t talk to him most of the time.

He can’t help sneaking glances at his brother as they drive to the museum. Dean looks a little shaken. He tries to reach across the bond but he can’t sense anything from Dean at the moment.

Sam had hoped that the bond would help, that it would make it easier for Dean to open up to Sam, but it’s still a struggle to get his brother to talk. It's moments like this, when it doesn't feel like they've made any progress in understanding each other, that Sam wonders what the hell they've done, what they were thinking when they started this. Then he remembers how Dean looked, heart broken and utterly lost when he thought Sam had died and he'd allowed it to happen. It's one of two images from that night that Sam knows he will never, _ever_ forget. The other is the way Dean looked, spread beneath him on the back seat of the car, arching up and breathing Sam's name like a prayer. Even now, that thought can make his breath catch. He restrains the desire to sigh in frustration.

It's a relief to reach the museum, to be able to get out of the car before Dean's stubbornness makes Sam want to wring his brother's neck. He knows he really shouldn't be surprised. It's always been like this between them, swinging from understanding to misunderstanding. The bond and the sex haven't changed who they are, not really. They've just smoothed out some of the jagged edges. He gets out of the car and walks towards the museum, not waiting for Dean to join him.

"Hey, Sam. What's the hurry?"

"Nothing, I just want to get this over with." He can hear the frustration bubbling just beneath the surface of his words, however much he tries to hide it.

Dean catches him up, then passes Sam and plants himself directly in Sam's path.

"What's going on, Sam? What have I done to piss you off this time?"

Sam's tempted to just push past him, but that's just avoiding the issue, and that's exactly the reason he's mad at Dean.

"It's just... I just want you to talk to me, you know, _trust_ me."

"What the...? Sam, I do trust you."

"Yeah, in a hunt. I'm talking about trusting me with other stuff."

"What other stuff?" Dean looks genuinely bemused and Sam doesn't know whether to be exasperated or amused.

"What's been going on with you lately? The policewoman, the security guard's place, everything. I just want to help but you still keep me at a distance, I still don't feel like you trust me enough to be honest with me."

Dean looks stricken.

"Sam... I trust you, you _know_ I do." Dean looks away and sighs, then looks back at Sam. "Look, can we talk about this later?"

"Are you actually going to talk? Or is this one of your delaying tactics?"

Sam can actually feel the hurt and the confusion that Dean's feeling through the bond.

"We'll talk, I promise." Dean looks as earnest as he can and while Sam's not entirely convinced, he's prepared to let it go for now.

"OK." Dean lets out a breath and Sam can feel his relief. He wonders what the hell can have Dean so spooked. It's not like Dean to be this uneasy and Sam knows his need to know is partly frustration and partly worry. There's also a small part of him that wants to know _everything_ about Dean and it's that part that drives him to push and push when he knows he shouldn't.

"Come on. Let's go see what we can find out." Sam nods and Dean grins then, an honest, open smile that Sam can't help but return.

He falls into step beside his brother, making sure that his hand brushes Dean's every so often.

"What are we posing as today then? FBI?"

Dean laughs.

"Nah, I thought journalists would work better. After all, I'm sure the museum is going to be interested in some good publicity after all these deaths."

Just as they're about to walk through the doors, Dean's fingers brush Sam's, fingers catching as if he's going to hold Sam's hand. It's the lightest, briefest touch, but it's unexpected enough that it leaves Sam's skin tingling and what he's sure is a foolish grin on his face.


	4. Chapter 4

Even watching Dean flirt with the petite brunette on the Customer Services desk doesn't cool the warm feeling in Sam's chest. It's sad really, how the smallest of gesture from Dean can make Sam ridiculously happy. When the girl turns away to make a call, Dean looks over his shoulder at Sam and winks. Sam makes a show of rolling his eyes and sighing, but he can tell by the smirk curving Dean's lips that his brother isn't fooled. He doesn't want to be angry or frustrated with Dean, he just wants to understand.

There's a flicker of irritation when the girl tells Dean that the museum curator will be down to meet them shortly, and then slides a scrap of paper across the desk towards Dean. It's obvious from the way she's smiling at Dean that it's her number, or e-mail address, or something and Sam makes an almost absent minded mental note to find and burn the note later.

When the curator finally meets them at the front desk, almost 40 minutes later, Sam's in danger of needing serious dental work from grinding his teeth so much and even Dean's grin is forced and strained. It's a relief to get away from the Customer Service girl's grating perkiness.

The curator could be anywhere from forty to fifty, his hair is steel grey and his eyes are a strange, washed out shade of blue. His gaze barely grazes Sam when he greets them, but lingers a second or two longer on Dean. It's not enough to be obvious, but Sam sees it. He also sees the expression that crosses the curator's face. It's not lust, though it certainly is hungry in a way that makes Sam's skin crawl.

He introduces himself as David Steadman and makes idle conversation as he leads them through the museum to his office. Sam trails a step or two behind the curator and his brother. Steadman asks a lot of questions that at any other time would be innocuous; are they staying in the area? How long are they planning on being around? Whether they have family, wives, children. It's nothing unusual, except that Sam can't forget the look on the guy's face. There's a unpleasant feeling crawling up and down his spine and he gets a flashback to the memory of his hands, covered in blood and a momentary glimpse of Dean's face, pale and scared, lips mouthing Sam's name and he _knows_ that's not a memory.

Sam manages to keep walking, but Dean turns, his expression neutral, but Sam can see the concern in his brother's eyes. He shakes his head quickly and Dean nods sharply, but the look on his face as he turns back is just a little worried. He tries to ignore the panic swirling in his stomach, concentrating on walking and acting as if nothing is wrong. He can tell from the frequent, quick glances Dean throws over his shoulder that he's not succeeding, at least not enough to fool Dean.

Steadman's office is mid-sized, with a large window and bookcases filled to overflowing. He waves them into chairs and sits behind a modern glass and chrome desk, closing the lid of the laptop on his desk with a soft snick.

"So, you gentlemen are here to do a piece on the museum's Egyptian exhibition?"

"Yes. We're here to do an article on the museum and the exhibit." Dean answers, as if he knows Sam's not up to playing his part just yet.

"I assume you've heard about the recent deaths?"

"Yes."

"And will you be mentioning them?" Steadman seems intrigued by the way Dean's eyes keep flicking towards Sam and now is one of the moments when Sam actually wishes he'd gotten the power of telepathy or something because he really, _really_ doesn't like the look on the curator's face as he watches them.

"Well, I'm afraid we'll have to, but we'd really like to put a positive spin on it. Right Sam?"

"Yeah, definitely." He clears his throat, trying to concentrate on the job.

"Well, I guess any publicity is good publicity. Or so they say." Steadman leans back in his chair and crosses his legs. "What did you want to know?"

Sam gives himself a mental slap and tells himself to get his act together, in a mental voice that sounds terrifyingly like Dean.

"Tell us something about the main artifacts in the exhibit. I understand you've got a genuine mummy, among other things." He's pleased with the fact that his voice is steady and he sounds as though he's calm and collected. He catches Dean's eye and tries as hard as he can to project just a little of his unease through the bond, hoping that Dean will pick up on it, that the bond does indeed work both ways. Dean's eyes widen, then he blinks, twice. His expression doesn't change and he looks away a second later, but Sam thinks he's got the message. He feels a brief thrill that it worked, at the further evidence that the bond is still growing, still getting stronger.

Steadman becomes more animated as he talks about the exhibit, telling them that the mummy is very old, possibly the oldest so far discovered, that it dates back to a time when the Egyptians were simply burying bodies in the desert and allowing the hot, dry earth to preserve their dead. He talks about the mummy being a mystery and defying attempts to examine it more fully, about MRI machines shutting down when the body was placed inside, and x-rays that were nothing but white.

Sam tries to hide his surprise at how much Steadman is telling them. It's almost as though the man is taking a positive glee in regaling the weird things that have happened around the mummy.

"So, are the x-rays and stuff the only odd things that have been happening?" There's just the faintest hint of sarcasm in Dean's voice and Sam knows that his brother isn't buying whatever Steadman's trying to sell either.

Steadman shrugs. "There's been talk among some of the staff about lights being on when they should be off, or vice-versa, or unusual noises in the museum after hours. I'm sure it's just the usual nonsense that happens when people are spooked."

"And are people spooked?" Sam asks.

"This isn't such a big town that murder is common. Two people who worked here have died in unusual circumstances. People are bound to be uneasy."

"Is there any truth to these tales of lights and noises?" Steadman studies Dean for a moment, as if he's looking for something, then he shrugs again.

"You'd be better asking the night guard about that. I'm rarely here after hours. I prefer to get in early rather than stay late."

"I thought the night guard had died?"

"There are some expensive and unique pieces housed here. We couldn't leave them unguarded, so as sad as we were about Todd, we had to get someone else in to replace him."

"And that would be?"

"Steve Carmichael."

"Will he be working tonight? We'd like to talk to him, get his take on these strange events. If you don't mind?" Dean grins and that hungry light is suddenly back in Steadman's eyes. Sam restrains the urge to lean across the desk and wrap his hands around the man's throat by sheer force of will.

"No, I believe that tonight is his night off. We have another guy we use once or twice a week to give our regular guard a break."

"Any idea where we can find Mr. Carmichael?"

"I'm sorry, I can't give you his home address without his permission, I'm sure you understand. However I think he spends his time off in a bar a few blocks away. I can give you the address if you want to try and find him there?"

"Please."

Steadman nods and scribbles some details on a piece of paper, before holding it out to Dean.

"Here. You can't miss him if he is there. Just look for the tall, tattooed redhead." Steadman smiles in a way that reminds Sam unexpectedly of a cat watching a mouse. Steadman glances down at his watch. "Is there anything else I can tell you gentlemen?"

"No, thanks, you've been very helpful and I think we've got all we need for the moment."

"Well, if you need anything else, let me know. Otherwise I'm afraid I have an appointment with the museum director."

They all stand and Steadman shakes their hands. His grip is firm but his hands are cold and Sam wants to pull his hand away as quickly as possible. Instead he grits his teeth and acts as if nothing is wrong. He can tell from the way Dean's jaw twitches when he takes Steadman's hand that he thinks the same.

"Thank you for your time, Mr. Steadman, we really appreciate it."

"No problem. As I say, any publicity is good publicity. Can I see a copy of the article when it's complete?"

"Of course."

"Thank you."

Sam manages to hold in his shiver until they've made their way through the museum, past the flirty Customer Services girl, who is thankfully occupied with another museum visitor. It's not until they're out of sight of the front doors of the building that he relaxes despite the cold chill wrapping itself around his spine.

Dean shakes himself, like a dog after a bath as they reach the car. He unlocks the driver’s side door and slides inside. Sam climbs in the passenger side and turns to face Dean. He needs to know what's going on with Dean.

"Man, what is it with the freaky people in this town?" Dean sounds faintly disgusted and Sam fights the smile that wants to escape.

"You felt something with him too?"

Dean tenses for a moment, then blows out a breath.

"Yeah."

It's like pulling teeth sometimes, getting anything out of Dean. Sam tries to be a patient as he can, but he wants to know what Dean felt from both Steadman and through the bond.

"Like the policewoman?"

"No, not really. She just gave me goose bumps. _He_ made my skin crawl."

"Yeah, I got that too." He waits to see what Dean has to say to that. He wants Dean to tell him on his own, without making Sam drag it out of him.

Dean sits there for a moment, biting at his lip the way he always does when he's trying to decide what to do.

"I know. I, ah, felt that. You know. Through the bond." He keeps looking straight ahead, fingers gripping the steering wheel.

Sam wants to shout. Instead he licks his lips and tries not to allow any of his jubilation to leak through into his voice.

"So it worked? You felt that then?"

"Uh-huh." Dean pauses, teeth catching his lip again and Sam can't tear his eyes away from the sight of white on red, even though he's on on edge, waiting to hear what Dean's going to say next. "I, uh, I think the bond's getting stronger. I kinda felt something from you earlier, when we left that Fuller kid's house."

"You did? Why didn't you say anything?" Sam drags his eyes away, watching Dean's expression carefully.

Dean sighs. "Because I needed time to get used to the idea. It's OK for you, you've had time to get used to this psychic shit. It's just… It freaks me out a bit."

Sam breathes out slowly. It would be so easy now to blow this, to say the wrong thing and have Dean react angrily, to cause his brother to clam up on the subject again.

"Yeah. It takes a while to get used to. I want to explore this more Dean, I want to know how we can make this work, make this give us an edge." He sees the way Dean frowns and he hurries on before Dean gets the wrong idea, again. "But I know it takes some getting used to. We won't do anything until you're comfortable with it, OK?"

Dean's frown deepens. "I'm not a child Sam, don't try babying me. I'm just worried that if you keep pushing, if you keep working this bond then one day you're going to find out something, something you won't like and you'll..." He snaps his mouth shut, trapping the last word behind his teeth, but Sam knows what it is anyway.

"Dean. Dean, look at me." He reaches out and rests a hand on Dean's shoulder. Dean turns, clearly unwillingly. "I don't care. I don't care what you've done in the past. I mean it. I'm not a kid either, I know what this life is like. There isn't anything that'll make me leave you, I promise."

He leans forward and after a second’s hesitation, Dean meets him halfway. Sam will never, ever get tired of kissing Dean. Each time is different, each time is new and exciting, each time is like coming home to find that nothing has changed and everything is just as you left it.

Dealing with Dean's issues is a mental and emotional minefield, but Sam thinks he's getting better and better at defusing the bombs before they blow up in both their faces.

He lets Dean pull away, distracted by the way Dean's lips shine and the sight of Dean's tongue sliding over them, as if to capture the taste of the two of them.

"So, we're good then? We're ok?" He needs Dean to say it.

"Yeah. We're good, Sammy." He turns the key in the ignition and the familiar vibrations soothe Sam further. "Let's go get something to eat, and see what leads we’ve got so far before we go find this Steve guy.”

*****

They spend the afternoon trawling through endless sites about Ancient Egypt, trying to make some sense of the things they've found at the crime scenes. Dean's read and re-read the newspaper reports and the scant information Sam's been able to dig up on the murders. They're no closer to figuring out what's happening than they were when they first got here.

They're both frustrated and tired and when Dean finally tosses the papers he's been rifling through onto the table and announces he's heading for a shower, Sam just nods. He intends to join Dean in the shower again, because there's something so damned erotic about the slippery slide of his skin against Dean's, but for once Dean is quick and Sam's barely had a chance to shut down the laptop and tidy the papers before Dean's leaving the bathroom, towel wrapped low around his hips. Sam thinks about walking over to his brother, pulling that towel away and pressing Dean down onto the bed, but as much as appealing as the idea is, he knows they've got somewhere to be tonight. They'll have time later for what Sam wants to do. But he can't resist reaching out and trailing his fingertips over the damp skin of Dean's back as he walks past his brother.

Once Sam's showered, they dress and head out to eat before going to see if they can hunt down the guard and get some more answers. They’re in a big enough town that they have a choice of places to eat. They chose a quiet little Mexican restaurant that has sombreros of every size on the wall and subdued lighting at the tables.

The plates are brightly coloured and slightly garish, the waiter is polite but not overly chatty and the fajitas are just the right side of spicy. For all that Dean doesn't like staying in one place too long, he's certain he could happily spend a week or two here. He ignores Sam's small sound of disgust as he layers chicken, salsa, sour cream and guacamole onto his tortilla. Sam has his plain, just chicken and tortilla, but he likes refried beans on the side and Dean's just never understood how anyone could like refried beans.

He's momentarily distracted by Sam licking his fingers clean after finishing his last fajita, but he covers it by ordering another drink. There's still a small part of him that isn't always entirely comfortable with the idea that he's lusting after the baby brother he damn near raised. Most of the time, he barely even gives it a thought, but every so often what he supposes is his conscience raises its head and he wonders what the _hell_ he's doing. Sam grins at him then and the feeling passes, as quickly as it came.

They both have ice cream for dessert and Dean enjoys the way the coolness counteracts the lingering tingle from the spicy chicken almost as much as he enjoys watching Sam lick melted ice cream from his spoon.

It's starting to get late when they leave the restaurant and they head straight for the sports bar where the security guard is supposed to spend his off duty time. They find the bar and while the place isn't exactly over flowing, it's busy enough that they'll be able to make themselves unobtrusive while they see if the guard is here. Sam orders two beers and Dean leans back against the bar, scanning the room quickly, trying to spot the guard.

He's not hard to find, even in a town this size there aren't that many tall, redhead, guys. Steadman wasn’t kidding about the tattoos. The guy’s arms are covered with thick black lines in some kind of tribal pattern. The tattoos start at his wrists, winding around his arms, all the way up, disappearing under the sleeves of his grey t-shirt, only to re-emerge from the neckline, curling over the nape of his neck, seeming to disappear under short cropped red hair. Dean reckons he's about the same age as Sam, though he's bigger built and an inch or two taller than Dean himself.

The guard is currently racking the balls on the pool table and Dean keeps one eye on him whilst pretending to watch the football game that's playing on the big screen to the left of the guard. He continues to watch the guy play, while making small talk with Sam about a game that neither of them are watching.

Three beers and two games later, both of which the guard has won, Dean thinks he's got the measure of the man's game. He figures it's time to make a move.

"OK, I'm gonna go see if I can get him to talk."

"What am I supposed to do?"

"Watch the game?" He winks at Sam as he pushes away from the bar, draining the last of the beer from his bottle as he starts to walk away.

"Dean... Damnit." He hears Sam muttering "Asshole" under his breath and it just makes him grin all the harder as he makes his way over to the pool table.

*****

Sam watches as Dean walks over to the guard. He can see the way the guy straightens up and there's more than a hint of interest in the way he eyes Dean. Sam grits his teeth when the guy takes a single long look, eyes moving from feet to head, lingering on Dean's mouth. The stab of jealousy that Sam felt when he saw his brother with the policewoman is nothing to the dark emotion that clouds his mind when he sees another man looking at Dean in that way.

It's far from the first time that men as well as women have looked at Dean with lust. He knows that they're bound, tighter than any marriage, tighter than blood, but he can't help the surge of possessiveness that washes over him when he watches the guard grin at Dean and offer him a pool cue. Sam doesn't miss the way Steve's fingers brush against Dean's.

There's a faint echo of _something_ through the bond, but it's gone too fast for Sam to identify it.

He has to restrain himself from stalking over to the pool table as they play. The guard is clearly checking Dean out and he stands closer than is strictly necessary and Sam can't for the life of him figure out why Dean's isn't telling him to back the hell off.

When the guy puts his hand on Dean's shoulder and leans in close to mutter something close to Dean's ear, startling a laugh out of him, Sam can't stay put any longer. He doesn't even bother to be subtle about it. He walks right up to them, until he's standing just behind Dean.

The guard looks away from Dean and damn near jumps when he realizes Sam's looming over Dean's shoulder. Dean, however, doesn't so much as flinch.

"Steve, meet my brother, Sam. Sam, this is Steve. He's the night guard at the museum."

Steve relaxes, clearly assuming that Sam was a pissed off boyfriend. Sam wonders what he'd do if he realized how close to the truth he was.

"Pleased to meet you Sam." He sticks out his hand and Sam's almost minded to ignore it until Dean subtly jabs an elbow in Sam’s stomach. He shakes Steve's hand, fighting the impulse to squeeze as hard as possible when he does. He tries to reign in the need to show Steve that Dean’s _his_. He never used to be the jealous kind, before. Before Dean, before the bond. He takes a breath and tries to stamp down the feeling.

"Hi."

"Dean tells me that you're interested in seeing the Egyptian exhibit at the museum." Sam can feel himself grinding his teeth at the guy's casual use of Dean's name. "I was just suggesting that if you guys want to come by tomorrow night, I should be able to let you stay after closing. Let you have a look without all the crowds."

Dean grins and takes a drink from the bottle in his hand. Sam sees the way Steve watches Dean's lips slide over the bottle and he really, _really_ wants to smash the guy in the face. He knows just how damned obscene it looks when Dean tips his head back like that and there's a small part of him that can't blame the other guy for looking, though it's drowned out in the desire to do something stupid, like slam Dean against the wall and make sure that everyone in the room knows that he's out of bounds; that he's _Sam's_.

"I said we'd love to have a look around the museum, after hours. Isn't that right Sammy?" Dean's tone carries just a hint of suggestion and he leans against the pool table, as if he's posing and Sam has no idea how he keeps his hands in his pockets, because the guy flirting with Dean is one thing, Dean flirting back is something else entirely.

"Yeah, that'd be great." He has to force the words out, has to paint a grin on his face, though the guard is too busy looking at Dean to take any notice of Sam.

"Cool. Look, here's my cell number. If you want to come see the exhibit, give me a call and let me know, OK?"

Dean takes the slip of paper and Sam fights the urge to rip it out of his fingers and tear it into small pieces. There are other ways to get into the museum. He doesn't want this man anywhere near Dean again. Ever.

"Certainly will." Dean grins and passes back the cue. Sam wants to break every one of Steve's fingers as they brush Dean's again.

"See you tomorrow Dean, Sam."

"Yeah."

They walk to the car in silence. The drive to the hotel is endless and Sam can barely sit still. He's burning with the need to say something, to find out what the hell Dean's playing at; to reassure himself that Dean still wants him and only him. He doesn't even care how pathetic that sounds. He can’t feel anything from Dean through the bond and he doesn’t know if it’s his own anger and jealousy that’s blocking him, or something else.

They're barely in the room before the words start spilling out.

"What the _fuck_ was that about?"

Dean turns to face Sam, eyes wide with surprise.

"What are you on about Sammy?"

"Flirting. You were damned well flirting with him."

"What's up with you man? We needed answers and we needed to get into the museum." Dean sounds amused, which does nothing for Sam's temper.

"And you had to flirt to get that? I mean, why didn't you just sit in the guy's lap or something?"

"Damnit, Sam, what the hell is with you? What's got you acting like a jealous bitch lately?"

"He touched you..." Dean laughs then and it's more than Sam can take.

It takes him a second to cross the room, hands fisting in Dean's shirt, moving until he slams his brother's back against the wall.

"He _touched_ you, Dean. No one gets to do that, no one but me. _No one_.”

Dean's look of surprise would be amusing at any other time. Sam leans in and kisses him, hard. Dean just lets him for a moment, then he's kissing back, just as ferociously, just as aggressively and his hands curl around Sam's hips, fingers digging in hard enough to leave bruises.

Just as Sam's jealousy is starting to recede, the world moves and he's the one with his back against the wall and Dean's mouth pulls away from his, leaving stinging bites under his jaw, down his neck, teeth scraping against the delicate skin of his throat.

Sam braces himself, then shoves away from the wall, sending them stumbling across the room until the backs of Dean's legs catch the bed and Sam uses his momentum to drive his brother down onto the mattress. Dean wriggles under him, trying to get enough leverage to flip them both, but Sam is ready for it, and he pins Dean.

He kisses Dean again, biting his lips until he can taste the bitter tang of blood. Dean's hands snake under Sam's t-shirt, nails scratching; bright flares of pain that make Sam sink his teeth into Dean's shoulder.

He's fairly certain that at least one of their t-shirts is ripped in the process of stripping them off, because he's damned if he's going to give Dean the chance to get the upper hand. There's something undeniably hot about having his brother trapped beneath him; about the way Dean still struggles to get free. Jeans end up tangled around their knees and Dean wriggles, trying to throw Sam off and they wrestle until somehow Dean's on his stomach and Sam's draped all over him. Sam thanks the accident of fate that gave him arms long enough to reach the bottle of lube on the bedside table without having to shift too much of his weight off of Dean’s back.

He drops the bottle onto the bed. It's tempting to just take Dean, to drive home and fuck his brother until he can't walk straight, but he wants something else, wants to remind Dean that he belongs to Sam. He catches Dean's wrists, pulling Dean's arms down to his sides as he slides down Dean's body. He can't help leaving little bites as he goes.

Dean shouts when Sam nips his left buttock, hard, and he's suddenly writhing again, trying to get loose. Sam tightens his grip and runs his tongue from the small of Dean's back, all the way down to his balls. Dean shudders, hands twisting until he can grip at Sam's wrists.

" _Jesus_..." Dean's voice is breathy and rough.

He untangles his hands from Dean's.

"Keep your hands where they are." He expects a response, expects some smart comeback. Instead Dean does as he's told, hands clutching at the bedspread. It's undeniably arousing to see Dean following _Sam's_ orders for once.

Dean's back arches when Sam spreads him open and torments him with his tongue. He alternates between soft licks, gentle bites and pressing his tongue into his brother's body and licking him open until Dean's shivering and gasping and it's the hottest damned thing Sam's ever seen or heard.

The lube is cold as he slicks up his fingers, pressing two into Dean, making his brother hiss as his hips jerk at the sensation. He works them in as far as he can, then runs his tongue around them, sucking gently at the stretched skin, remembering how it felt earlier in the day, when he could feel Dean's cock working him open, as his brother fucked him.

Dean moans and his breath catches when Sam manages to force his tongue in beside his fingers. He's not sure which of them is getting off on this more.

A third finger and Dean's nearly whining. Sam wants nothing more than to torment Dean like this for hours, to keep him on the edge, to make sure that Dean knows that no one else can make him feel like this, that no one else knows him like Sam does. But he's too strung out, too turned on by the noises Dean's making and the way his body ripples and shifts as Sam drives his fingers into him.

He pulls his fingers back, slicking lube over his cock, hands shaking with lust. He shifts until he's blanketing Dean's body with his again, cock riding between Dean's buttocks, making Dean arch up against him.

"Dean..."

"Yeah..."

That's all he needs and though the position is awkward because they've both still got their jeans around their ankles, he manages, with minimal fumbling to slide home, pressing as deep as he can into his brother, before drawing out and slamming forward again.

Dean's body rocks beneath his, despite being pinned. It rough and almost brutal and Sam know he should go slower but he’s not in control anymore. He's caught between the physical pleasure of taking his brother and the lingering memory of Dean driving into him this morning, hard and sure, and the memory of being fucked and the reality of fucking Dean seem to get tangled up in his head so that he's totally broadsided by his orgasm. He drives into Dean so hard he's got to be hurting him. Dean makes a wordless noise and shudders. Sam manages to drag them both half way up onto their knees so that he can get a hand under his brother and it only takes a few strokes before Dean's coming too, panting and muttering curses and Sam's name.

Sam slumps to the side. He's drained and all the anger and the jealousy have bled away until all he feels is guilt for doubting Dean's devotion, for the aggression and anger and for hurting Dean in any way.

"Sam?"

He winces. Dean's voice is tinged with a faint hint of pain, though he doesn't sound mad about it.

"Yeah." He can hear the apology in his own voice.

"I'm not complaining, before you go all emo on me, but what the fucking hell brought this on?"

"I don't know."

"Oh come on Sam. The diner a couple of states back? The death glares you were giving Officer Brown? Now this? Is this gonna happen every time someone talks to me, cause I've gotta say, it could be something of a problem."

"I'm sorry man. I don't know why. I just... I..."

"Yeah, I know." Dean's voice softens and though sometimes he can be a total asshole, it's moments like this, when Sam can feel his understanding through the bond, that remind him just why he loves his brother so damned much. "Just try to tone it down a little, OK? I'm not going home with anyone but you."

"I know. I'm sorry, Dean." He wishes that the bond was more reliable, but even six months down the line, he can’t always feel Dean through it. He suspects that sometimes, his own emotions drown out Dean’s.

"S'ok. But if I'm walking funny tomorrow, you get to tell Steve why..."

Sam can hear the smirk in Dean's voice and it's a relief to know he hasn't fucked up. He'll face Steve tomorrow and no matter how much flirting goes on, he'll remember this and it won't matter.


	5. Chapter 5

Sam wakes next morning, lying on his side, his nose about half an inch from Dean's shoulder. Dean's on his back, one hand resting on his stomach. Sam can smell the warm, sleepy scent of Dean's skin. Sometime during the night the sheet has tangled around their legs, leaving them both naked.

He can see bruises, dark blossoms against Dean's lightly tanned skin. There's a faint ring around each of his brother's wrists, a bracelet of finger-shaped marks. He shifts, feeling the sting of the scratches Dean left on him. He likes the idea of them marking each other. Oh, they have the tattoos, but this, this is more primal, more basic. There isn't even a trace of guilt and Sam doesn't know how he feels about that. He feels that he should feel at least a little guilty for his actions last night; for acting the jealous lover, for his aggression, his roughness. But Dean wasn't exactly complaining and all Sam feels is sated and smug.

Sam lets his fingers trail ever so lightly from Dean's shoulder to his wrist. he can't help wrapping his hand around Dean's wrist, fitting his fingers to the pale smudges on his brother's skin. Later, they will probably darken and Sam wants Dean to wear short sleeves, so everyone will know that Dean belongs to someone, that he belongs to _Sam_. Sam can't help the need to show that Dean is his. Dean's spent so long looking for whatever affection he could get, selling himself too cheaply and too easily for just the illusion of being wanted, being needed. Sam worries that if he doesn't pay enough attention, that if he doesn't prove his _need_ for Dean enough, someone else will offer Dean what he's spent most of his life seeking and Sam will lose him.

Dean shifts slightly, fingers twitching, before he turns onto his side, facing away from Sam. Sam is almost tempted to curl up around his brother and wake him with kisses to his neck and gentle caresses. But he knows his brother and so he reluctantly leaves their bed, showers, dresses and creeps quietly out of the room to grab them some coffee. Dean is generally not sweet tempered in the morning unless he's had coffee. He likes to wake slowly and kick start his day with as much caffeine as he can cram into one cup. They have an unwritten rule that whoever wakes up first, gets the coffee. Sam doesn't mind, if he was being totally honest with himself, he likes the opportunity to do something for Dean, to repay the million and one little things Dean has done for him over the years.

When he gets back, balancing coffees and donuts, the bed is empty. He listens, but he can't hear the sound of the shower running. He leaves breakfast on the small table and heads towards the bathroom. The door is closed and he pushes it gently open.

Dean is lounging in the tub, sunk down as low as he can and still keep his head out of the water. One arm dangles over the side of the tub and one foot rests on the tiled wall above the taps. He looks relaxed and decadent and utterly debauched, somehow.

Sam steps just inside the door and as he starts to walk across to the tub, Dean's eyes slit open and then Sam's hit hard by a sudden vision. He can see Dean spread out on an altar or something similar, his chest cracked open, blood staining his too pale skin, pooling on the white cloth beneath him. Sam can see the internal organs, lungs, stomach, even the heart, beating, even as he watches. As Sam watches, his body begins to knit together, muscles and bone and sinew reconnecting, flesh joining until there's not even a scar and Sam _knows_ that though it's his brother's body that sits up, whole and healthy and perfect, whatever is now inhabiting it, it isn't Dean.

Knowing that something has taken over Dean's mind is worse than seeing his brother cut open. To look into familiar eyes and see something utterly alien looking back. He opens his eyes and finds the wood of the bathroom door so close he goes nearly cross eyed trying to focus on it. He can feel the bitter taste of bile in the back of his throat and his stomach lurches.

"Sam?"

He hears splashing and before he can move he's staring at a wet and naked Dean. His brother's skin is slightly pink and slick with bubbles and water. Sam wants to be able to appreciate the sight, but he searches out Dean's eyes, needing to reassure himself that it really is Dean.

Dean reaches out and catches Sam's head.

"Sammy, talk to me."

"I'm ok." His voice is hoarse, as though he's been shouting and despite the fact that Dean’s right in front of him, real and safe, he can’t seem to stop seeing all that blood.

"Bullshit. You had another vision, didn't you?"

Sam blinks.

"I... Yeah."

"Something about blood and hearts and... other freaky shit."

"What? How do you know?"

Dean suddenly looks uncertain, uneasy.

"I got something, like an echo, or an after image. Not much, but enough to know it wasn't exactly good. Damn, Sam, why can't you even had good visions? You know, you, me, baby oil, a vibrator. _That_ kind of vision?"

Sam's having trouble keeping up with Dean's conversation and he's not sure if it's a residue from the vision or whether it's just because Dean is rambling. He wishes he could concentrate on what his brother _isn't_ saying, but he's far too busy trying not to throw up.

"Doesn't work that way." He mumbles, pushing carefully past Dean, lowering the seat on the toilet and sitting down before his legs give out under him.

“Yeah, no shit.”

There's movement and then Dean's kneeling in front of him, a scratchy white towel wrapped around his waist. He rests one hand on Sam's knee, the other holding a Sam a glass of water which Sam takes gratefully. The few visions he's had of Dean tend to leave him feeling nauseous rather than with a blinding migraine, but whether that's because they seem to always be of Dean dying, he doesn't know.

Dean's watching him, as if trying to gauge Sam's state of mind. Sam tries not to think about the fact that his visions can be split neatly into two categories - those that involve the demon and those that involve Dean dying somehow. He doesn't even want to consider that there might be a connection, somehow. He doesn't want anything to do with that bastard touching Dean in any way.

Sam leans back, the coolness of the toilet tank obvious even through his jacket and shirt. He closes his eyes and concentrates on the feel of Dean's hand on his leg, the concern he can feel from his brother, the knowledge that he's had a previous vision of Dean dying and he managed to prevent that happening, managed to keep his brother safe and alive.

"Tell me what you saw."

Sam shakes his head. He can't. There's still that childish fear that if he puts it into words, it'll become truth and he won't be able to stop it happening. For once, he doesn't want to know what Dean picked up through the bond. He hates the visions, but he'd rather have the pain and the fear than put Dean through that, than have Dean see himself as Sam saw him.

He can feel the tremors in his hands and he clutches the glass tighter, trying to hide his fear. This vision has hit him harder than the one of Dean in the haunted house. Dean dying is one thing, Dean being turned into someone, _something_ else makes Sam's skin crawl. He hears the cracking of glass and then he's turning, throwing up bile into the cracked sink by his head, stomach knotting and heaving.

When he finally stops retching painfully, he slumps back, the edge of the cistern digging painfully into his back, just below his shoulder blades. He ignores it. Dean hands him a cool washcloth and he wipes his face and mouth with it. Dean catches Sam's wrist and sits on the edge of the tub, Sam's hand cradled in his lap as he carefully picks shards of glass out of Sam's palm and fingers. Sam remembers the sounds of breaking glass. He presses the wet cloth to his forehead, watching Dean as he concentrates on his task, gentle and delicate as he tends to Sam. There's a little frown on Dean's face, lightly creasing his forehead as he makes sure he picks every last little sliver of glass from Sam's flesh. When he's satisfied, he lays down the tweezers and wipes the blood away with another damp flannel, before dabbing the little cuts with antiseptic lotion. It's like a thousand other times that Dean has patched Sam up. Grazed knees, knocks to the head, claw marks, poison oak, bee stings. It's never mattered how angry with him Dean was, or how scared his big brother had been for Sam, he's never, _ever_ let any of that show when he's taken care of Sam. Even before they were lovers, even when they fighting every day and the prospect of Sam leaving hung between them like a restless wraith.

Just the thought of something else taking over Dean's body has Sam turning back to the sink, though he's got nothing left to come up, not even bile.

Dean moves and there's a hand resting on Sam's lower back while the other brushes his hair out of the way, though Sam wants to tell him it's probably far too late to care about that now.

When he's finally done, his stomach aches, his head hurts and his eyes are watering. He feels broken and twisted. His mouth tastes sour and his eyes gritty. Dean moves as if he's going to leave the bathroom and Sam reaches out and grabs at him. The vision has left him needing to keep Dean close, bond or not. He can feel Dean's concern, his worry and it's all for Sam. He saw something of the vision, he has to know it was him that Sam saw, split open on that makeshift altar and he's still worried about _Sam_?

Sam doesn't know whether to fall to his knees at the sheer depth of Dean's love, or punch his brother for being so damned unconcerned about his own fate in the face of Sam's distress. Or he could be incredibly grateful that he's got the chance to see this. And incredibly humbled and more determined every day to repay some of his brother's single-minded devotion to Sam.

"Dean." His voice is rough and his throat feels raw. He stops, not sure anymore what to say. _I love you. I'm going to keep you safe again. You belong to me and no-one is going to take you away from me._

Dean watches him for a second, expression neutral, although Sam can see a dozen different emotions tumbling through his eyes. Then he reaches out and cups Sam's cheek. It's such a simple gesture but Sam leans into the touch and allows the warmth of Dean's touch and the concern and love he can feel filtering through the bond to chase away some of the chill that's still wrapped around his heart.

"Come on. Let's get you in the shower. You'll feel better once you've cleaned up properly."

He lets Dean pull him to his feet and strip him. Dean pushes him gently into the tub and crowds in behind him, hands stroking and soothing. They've shared a lot of showers since they moved from being just brothers. He doesn't know if it's some kind of subconscious attempt to wash a perceived sin away, or whether it's something deeper and more primitive than that. Half the time, it's not about sex, it's about being close, about taking care of each other. He tips his head back, opening his lips and taking a mouthful of water, trying to rinse away the bitter taste. When all he can taste is clean water, he turns, so abruptly he nearly pitches Dean out of the tub. He catches Dean's bicep with one hand, steadying him and the other curls around the back of Dean's neck and pulls him close. Dean's eyes close and he tips his head up, knowing exactly what Sam wants and giving it to him, as he always does.

Sam keeps his eyes open as he kisses Dean. It's not meant to arouse either of them, but he needs to touch and taste his brother, needs to try and drown out the memory of Dean's blood-drenched body with the reality of long eyelashes and freckles. When he's finally done, he wraps both arms around Dean and drops his head onto his brother's shoulder.

Dean doesn't say anything; not a single smart assed remark or crack about Sam acting like a girl and damnit, Sam's knows that means that Dean either saw more of that vision that he admitted to, or he's reading Sam clearly through the bond.

Sam knows that their lives aren't safe, knows that there is always the risk that one of them could die every time they go on a hunt. But that doesn't stop him wanting to rage against this. Against the visions that seem to haunt them. If it's not the demon, it's Dean dying and Sam is _sick_ of it. He's already bound them with the tattoos, what the hell else does he have to do to try and keep his brother safe?

He's tired and hurting and he wants to lock the doors and curl under the thin bed sheets, curl around his brother and never leave this room again.

"Hey, come on Sam. The water's cold, we have to get out of here and you're too damned heavy for me to carry."

He bites back something suspiciously like a sniffle and if Dean hears him, he doesn't say a word.

Dean wraps them both in towels and leads Sam into the other room and leaves him sitting on the bed, head in his hands while Dean re-heats the coffee in the microwave. He hears Dean's quiet footsteps as he comes back across the small room. He takes the cup Dean hands him and wraps his hands around it, trying to take some comfort from the heat seeping through the cardboard, even as the smell of coffee makes his stomach roil. Dean sits down next to him on the bed and sips at his coffee. Sam leans until they're shoulder to shoulder. Eventually the churning in his stomach settles, Dean's physical closeness, as well as the bond calming him. He wants to leave this town, this whole damned _state_ , but he knows Dean won't leave a hunt unfinished. Still, he has to ask.

"Now what?"

Dean shrugs, a movement Sam feels more than sees.

"We carry on with the hunt."

"Dean..."

"We can't just leave Sam. We need to figure out what's going and stop it."

"Even if it puts you in danger?"

"Every hunt puts us in danger Sam, it's just the nature of the job."

"Not like this. This is... You _know_ you might... Something bad might happen. Why the hell take the risk?"

He turns to look at Dean, but his brother stand and moves a few steps away, arms crossed over his chest, his expression one of stubborn determination.

"Because people have _died_ Sam. And more people might die if we don't stop whatever is happening. Can you live with that? Knowing we walked away when we could have done something? Because I can't."

"So instead you're willing to put yourself in danger?"

Dean sighs.

"Sam, I understand that you're upset and I'm not real keen on the idea of being some kind of living sacrifice myself, but I am not abandoning this hunt. We'll just have to be extra careful."

Sam's not sure who he wants to punch more - Dean for being so damned stubborn and so stupidly dedicated to hunting, or Dad for making him that way. Sure, Sam feels bad for the people who've died, and he'd rather not see anyone else die, but _not_ if the cost is going to be his brother. As far as he is concerned, the world can go to hell in a hand-basket if saving it means putting Dean at risk. He also knows his brother and even if he could persuade Dean to leave, Dean would never forgive Sam for making him go, or himself for being unable to refuse if Sam pleaded.

"You have to... I can't... lose you. I'm not going to."

Dean steps forward and crouches down in front of Sam. His hand rests on Sam's thigh, warm even through the scratchy motel towel.

"You won't." Dean moves his hand and curls his fingers around Sam's for a few seconds, then pulls away. "We'll be careful and we'll watch each other's backs."

Sam isn't appeased, but he's too tired to argue with Dean over this today.

"OK. So what do we do next? We've still got no idea what's going on."

"We'll talk to some more people, see if we can make any sense of this. Then I guess we'll take Steve up on his offer and go see what we can find at the museum."

Sam knows he's scowling and he doesn't care. Dean smirks and kisses Sam quickly. He goes to stand but Sam's quicker and he kisses Dean again, slow and deep, as if they have all day. Eventually Dean leans back. He looks at Sam and for a second, Sam thinks he's going to say something, but instead Dean just squeezes Sam's thigh and stands.

"Lets get dressed. Sooner we get this case solved the sooner we can leave this town."

That's a sentiment that Sam can whole-heartedly agree with.

****

When Dean suggests that they split up, Sam's reluctant, but he knows they'll work quicker that way. He extracts a promise from Dean to call him regularly, ignoring the way Dean rolls his eyes at the request. Dean doesn't put up more than a token objection though.

Three hours and half a dozen friends and neighbors later and Sam's no further forwards. Sam's just buying a coffee when Dean calls.

"Anything?"

"No. Nothing."

"Damn." Sam can hear Dean's frustration. "I'm beginning to wonder if these murders are supernatural at all."

"What? What about the creepy museum curator and the policewoman?"

"I'm not saying that there isn't something funny going on Sam, but maybe it's not related to the killings."

"Then why did we find the Ankh and the scarab at the scenes? Why were they all killed in the same way and the organs taken?"

"I don't know. But so far, apart from those trinkets, we haven't found a damned thing that couldn't be the work of some run of the mill psycho."

"Do you really believe that?"

Dean's sigh is heavy.

"No. Not really."

"OK, well, what do we do next?"

Sam juggles his coffee and the phone as he opens the door of the coffee shop. He side steps a young couple as they head into the shop and takes a couple of steps away from the door.

"I've got a couple more people to talk to. You got anyone left on your list?"

The wind suddenly picks up, catching a discarded newspaper and scattering it across the sidewalk. A discarded cardboard coffee cup rolls past Sam.

"Sam? You still there?"

"Yeah, sorry, got distracted."

"So, you got anyone left on your list to visit?"

"No."

"Well, why don't you head for the library, see if they've got anything there that we might have missed and as soon as I've finished up I'll meet you there?"

He can hardly hear Dean above the rising noise of the wind and a strange, muted whispering sound. He turns towards the noise about the same time he feels the first hint of something other than random trash in the wind.

He realizes that the swirling cloud heading towards him is some kind of sandstorm blowing, though they're a damned long way from any desert or beach. The sand stings his exposed skin and makes his eyes feel gritty and this is only the outer edge of the storm. He ducks back towards the coffee shop just as the people inside realize that something strange is going on and crowd towards the windows.

Only a minute or two after he gets inside and shakes the dust and sand from his hair and clothes the storm passes by. The wind howls down the street and the sand twists and turns in strange loops and eddies, as if it were a living thing, like a shoal of fish. It rages outside for a few seconds, then as soon as it started, it dies down, leaving an inch or so of sand all over the street. He becomes aware of the fact that he's still got his phone in his hand and Dean's, presumably still on the other end of the line.

"Dean, you still there?"

"Yeah, what the hell happened? One minute you're there, the next I'm talking to myself." Dean sounds pissed.

"I just missed getting sandblasted."

"What? What the hell are you talking about Sam?"

"Seriously. There was this freak sandstorm. Dumped like an inch of sand everywhere. Nothing happened where you are?"

"No. Nothing like that. What the hell is going on? Where'd a sandstorm come from?"

"No idea. It just came out of nowhere and then stopped."

"I don't like this. There's too much weird shit going on here, even by our standards. Get your ass to that library and I'll finish up here as quick as I can."

"OK. Dean, be... just be careful, OK?"

"Yeah. You too."

Sam hangs up and follows some of the other coffee shop patrons as they venture outside. He bends down and picks up a handful of sand. It's slightly warm to the touch, as if it's just been lifted from the desert and dropped here. Dean's not the only one who doesn't like the way things are going in this hunt.

****

Dean's drawn a total blank with everyone he's talked to. No-one seems to have seen or heard anything out of the ordinary. He's run down one dead end after another and ended up right back where he started.

Then there was the sandstorm. If Dean were the paranoid sort, he'd have to wonder if that wasn't meant as a sign, or a warning. Either way, he's not happy about Sam seemingly being the target. He's never willingly walked away from a hunt before, but he's damned tempted to do just that. Either way, he'll be glad to put this hunt and this town behind them.

He's heading for the library when he passes several police cars and an ambulance. For some reason, it catches his attention and he pulls over, leaving the car and joining the inevitable crowd of neighbors and strangers. He manages to work his way to the front of the small group, then nudges the guy standing next to him.

"What's all the excitement?"

"Policewoman's been found dead." His voice drops to a fake whisper " _Murdered_. Blood all over the place, bits missing. A real bloodbath." The familiar tone of perverse and almost lascivious glee in his voice is one that Dean's heard so often at these kind of scenes.

"Yeah. Nasty." There's a cold feeling settling in the pit of his stomach as he watches a stretcher being carried down the building steps. The body on it is covered, but Dean catches a glimpse of blonde hair as it passes. He doesn't need to see any more to know that it's Officer Brown under the sheet.

He turns away, unease sitting like a lead weight on his chest. He's dialing Sam's cell phone as he's walking back to the car. When someone bumps into him, all his training has him reaching for the gun at the small of his back. He manages to stop himself, but when he realizes who it is that he walked into, he's not so sure that was a good idea.

"Hey man, I'm sorry. Oh, hi Dean."

"Steve." It could just be a co-incidence, meeting the night guard like this, but every instinct is telling him that it's anything but. Besides, he knows that it was no accidental collision. He's spent too many years with Dad training him not to be totally aware of his surroundings. Steve was nowhere near when Dean started walking back to the car.

Steve nods towards the building.

"Know what's going on there?"

"Some one got killed, apparently. Policewoman, so I hear." He watches Steve carefully.

"Really. That's awful. All these deaths."

"Yeah. Look, you know what you were saying about letting us take a look around the museum after hours, that offer still stand?"

"Sure." Steve grins "The museum closes at 8pm, so why don't you guys come over about 7:45. If you come towards the back of the museum, where the Egyptian exhibition is, I'll meet you there and once the public has gone, I'll give you the full guided tour."

"OK. We'll be there. Thanks."

Steve walks away, letting his hand brush over Dean's arm as he goes. Dean watches him go, waiting until he's out of sight before he finishes dialing Sam.

"Sam, you still at the library?"

"Yeah. What's up?"

"You remember that police woman the other day? The blonde one."

"Yeah. Why?"

"She's dead, and it sounds like it might be connected to the other murders."

"You sure?"

"I think so, yeah. Look, I'm on my way. Stay put until I get there."

"Yeah. Be careful."

Dean slides into the car and heads for the library. He has a feeling that things are getting more and more complicated.

****

Sam can feel Dean before he can see him. His brother is even edgier than normal. Sam's not really surprised, considering everything that's happened since they got to this town.

Dean slumps down in a chair across the table from Sam. He immediately picks up a pen and starts tapping it on table.

"What happened with the policewoman?"

"I don't have the full story, but it sounds like there was lots of blood, just like the other scenes. And the rumour is that whoever" - the tapping stops for a second - "or whatever" - the tapping starts again - "killed her took some trophies."

"Trophies? As in organs?"

"No idea, but I'd guess so, yeah."

"So, why do you think you had such a strong reaction to her when you met her?"

Dean shrugs and the speed of the tapping increases. Sam watches him for a moment without speaking, before reaching out and snatching the pen back.

"Dean."

"I don't know."

"Well, do you think she was involved?"

"Doesn't seem likely."

"OK, so maybe you picked up on something else." Dean's tense. Sam can see it in the way he's sitting, can feel it humming through the bond. He knows that Dean doesn't want to think about this stuff, but they need to understand what's happening.

"Like what?"

"Like maybe the fact she was the next victim."

Dean's expression is pinched, defensive.

"I don't think this is the time for this discussion, Sam."

"I do. You think her death is related to the others, you had that really strong reaction to her. If her death is connected to this case then it might help if we could figure out what you picked up on."

Dena looks as though he's going to argue, or leave. Then he looks away from Sam and the unease melts into weary resignation.

"Yeah. I guess. What happened with that sandstorm?"

Sam doesn't call Dean on his less than subtle change of subject, there's no point pushing Dean too far when he knows that Dean's as uncertain and confused about what he sensed from Officer Brown as Sam is.

"No idea. It just came out of nowhere and then disappeared the same way."

"Freak weather?"

"Maybe, but I doubt it. I've been going over the old Egyptian myths and legends and I think I might have found something."

Dean sits up, more interested now that they might actually have some leads.

"What'd you find?"

"It seems that there are several 'Books' or texts that were particularly important to the Egyptians and are supposed to have certain spells and rituals in them. The Book of the Dead is all about funerary practices, mummification rituals and spells to ensure that the person's soul makes it to the spirit world. There are apparently instructions for the amulets and charms that should be included in mummy wrappings. The Book of the Underworld is about the Underworld and the paths a soul should take to ensure everlasting peace and prosperity. And then there's the Book of the Damned. This apparently contains spells and rites for things like bringing a soul back from the Underworld or calling a demon."

"Why do people always have to write this stuff down?"

Sam can't help but grin.

"No idea. Anyway, I also looked up anything relating to sandstorms. Seems that there is one particular god who was associated with the wind and storms."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. Set, God of Chaos. There's a lot about him in the Book Of the Damned. He's said to seize the souls of the unwary if they wander off in the Underworld. He was said to have been condemned to wander the Underworld himself for killing and dismembering his brother God, Osiris."

"Sounds like he'd be a fun guy to party with."

"Not really. The Ancient Egyptians considered him pretty much the embodiment of evil."

"So I take it you think that the books and this god are involved somehow?"

"The Egyptian exhibition at the museum includes at least one mummy that is supposed to have been one of the god's most powerful and important high priests, as well as a rare set of all three of the books."

"Well, there's a happy co-incidence. Speaking of co-incidences, I just ran into our friendly night guard outside the policewoman's apartment. Literally."

Sam can feel his jaw clench at just the mention of Steve. After everything that's happened today, knowing that the man that his brother was flirting with last night had touched Dean, even accidentally, is the last thing Sam wants to think about.

"You think it was just chance that you met him?"

Dean slants a sly look at Sam and Sam fights the urge to grind his teeth.

"No. I don't know what he was doing there, but there is no way him being there, or bumping into me was an accident."

"He's involved in some way?"

"No idea." Dean shrugs. "I told him we'd take him up on his offer to view the museum after hours, but I think we ought to go prepared."

"Are you sure we should take the risk of going at all?"

"We don't really have much choice. Everything is pointing to the museum and the exhibition and we've got nothing else to go on. The answer has to be there. If nothing else, we can take a look at these books of yours, see if they shed any light on this mess."

"I guess."

Dean looks at him, eyebrow raised. "What?"

Sam shrugs. He's got an uneasy feeling about going to the museum, but Dean's right, they've run out of any other options.

"Nothing." He fights the urge to fidget under Dean's continued gaze, but eventually Dean just nods, slightly.

"You done here?"

“Yeah.”

"Good, let's go." Sam has a sudden sense of what Dean's feeling through the bond and he wants to fidget for an entirely different reason.


	6. Chapter 6

They're barely through the door of the hotel when Dean rounds on Sam and presses his brother back against the door. Sam's obviously as greedy for Dean's touch as Dean is for his.

He can't stop kissing Sam, deep and slow, as if they have all the time in the world. He pulls Sam away from the door and walks backwards towards the bed, both of them stealing kisses and shedding clothes as they go. The backs of Dean's legs hit the bed and he sits. He can barely catch his breath when Sam drops to his knees in front of him. They're both naked now and Sam slides those fucking huge hands up Dean's legs, pressing his thighs further apart until Sam can kneel between them. When Sam bends forwards and slides his lips over the head of Dean's cock, Dean has to fight to keep his eyes open. He needs to see this, needs to see _Sam_. It should be so wrong, so filthy to see his baby brother going down on him in a cheap motel room, but it's anything but. He can feel the desire in Sam's touch, see his brother's delight in being able to please Dean this way in Sam's enthusiasm and he can sense the love through the bond.

He pulls Sam off his cock, shivering at the faint slurping noise Sam makes as he does so, the way Sam's lips shine, the flush that stains his cheeks. He can't resist kissing his brother, licking his lips, tasting Sam and himself. Sam kisses back, hungrily. He pulls away and leans backwards, towards his bag. When he sits back up, he drops the bottle of lube next to Dean and Dean can't help the way his hips twitch and his breath catches. Sometimes he still can't believe that Sam wants this as much as he does, that Sam gives himself so freely and so willingly.

Dean hefts himself a little further up the bed, pulling Sam with him until Sam's straddling his thighs. Sam grabs the lube and Dean's hand, tipping the slippery gel over Dean's fingers. Dean wraps one arm around Sam's back, and the other slides between the cheeks of Sam's ass. The way Sam arches as Dean slides two fingers slowly into his brother is intoxicating.

"Jesus. Dean..."

"Yeah. Oh yeah."

He works Sam open, enjoying the way his brother squirms and shivers above him. He loves this, loves seeing Sam like this. He trembles when Sam shifts so that he can slick Dean's cock with the lube. He leans back on his elbows as Sam positions them both, and slides slowly down onto Dean's cock. Sam leans forward and braces his hands on Dean's shoulders, then starts to move, fucking himself on Dean's cock. It's Dean's favourite position, because there's something almost unbearably hot about watching Sam ride him like this. He doesn't have much leverage, but he thrusts up as much as he can and the little intake of breath from Sam every time he does more than makes up for a lack of movement. It's slow and languid and so _damned_ good that he loses all sense of time, of where they are, of the hunt. He can't think of anything but Sam, can't focus on anything but this, but _them_.

Eventually, Sam leans back, one hand bracing his weight on Dean's thigh, the other wrapped around his own cock. Dean uses the extra leverage, wrapping both his hands around Sam's waist, bracing his feet against the bed and letting go, his hips driving up hard. Sam makes a choked sound, shudders and then he's coming, just like that. Dean isn't sure which of them is more surprised. He fucks Sam all the way through his orgasm until Sam's whimpers have just an edge of pain to them and then Dean finally thrusts up hard once more, as far as he can go before freezing as he comes, shaking and cursing.

Sam slumps forward, heavy and sweaty and hot, but Dean hasn't the strength or the inclination to make his brother move just yet. He lets a hand slide into Sam's hair, not petting, just resting there. He can hear Sam's breathing slow and he strokes his other hand down his brother's spine, enjoying the way Sam arches like a cat under the gentle petting.

He knows they're probably damned for this. He's fairly certain that he's not supposed to be this happy, this content. He knows that sleeping with Sam has probably destroyed his always fragile relationship with his father. He knows all this and he doesn't care. He doesn't care if this lasts a month, a year, a decade, a lifetime.

It's enough.

Sam finally shifts, sliding off Dean until he's lying on his stomach, sleepy, but still awake. He presses a gentle kiss to Dean's shoulder.

It's _more_ than enough.

*****

Sam doesn't want to leave the bed, let alone their room. He's not asleep, but he's not really awake either. Dean is propped up on pillows beside him, channel surfing as usual. Sam can't help feeling that going to the museum tonight is a bad idea. He can't shake the idea that the museum is somehow involved in his vision.

He feels the bed move as Dean gets up and then he hears the shower start. He wants to ask Dean not to go tonight, for them to find some other way to figure out what's going on, but he doesn't have any alternative suggestions. He gets up himself, moving across the room to his bag. He takes it back to the bed and while he's waiting for Dean to finish his shower, he pulls out his weapons, checking and loading each gun, and testing the edge and sharpening the knives. Whatever happens tonight, he intends to be prepared.

Dean seems surprised when he emerges from his shower, but he doesn't say anything. When Sam leaves the bathroom, Dean's doing the same thing. Sam still doesn't know exactly what Dean saw of the earlier vision and though he really wants to know, because it's another sign that the bond is growing and deepening, he's reluctant to think too much about it himself.

Sam can feel Dean's as apprehensive as he is. It feels as though they're about to hunt, not visit a museum. They don't talk much, but then they've never spoken much right before a hunt. They have a routine, something that they've subconsciously worked out through the years of growing up. Sam's never had the same jittery excitement that Dean normally gets. He's always been too afraid he'll screw up, too afraid that Dean will get hurt and it'll be his fault.

They drive to the museum in silence. Sam can sense the edge of unease under the anticipation that Dean's trying to hide. They give the girl on the Customer Service desk a wide berth after paying the entrance fee, despite the lingering glance she throws their way. Instead they wander through the main foyer, past a woolly mammoth. The Egyptian exhibit is towards the back of the museum. There's a mummy in its sarcophagus and three delicate looking scrolls.

Dean has his hands in his pockets and when he bends at the waist to take a better look at the scrolls in their glass case, Sam is hit by the mental image of stepping up behind his brother and taking him right there, onlookers and visions be damned. Dean, for once, appears to be oblivious to Sam's thoughts.

"So, these are the books then?"

Sam clears his throat and _that_ gets him a sideways glance that indicates that Dean wasn't quite as oblivious as Sam hoped.

"Yeah. The Book of the Dead, the Book of the Underworld and the Book of the Damned." He points them out in turn.

Dean straightens and turns towards the mummy in its case. He steps right up to the display case, almost pressing his nose against it.

"Hey, Sam. Look at this."

"What?" He steps up behind Dean, _almost_ close enough to touch, catching a glimpse of their reflections in the glass. For a second, he thinks he sees something else, something ominous, but it's gone too quickly for him to grasp it, leaving just a chill that raises goose bumps on his skin.

They both jump when an announcement about the museum closing blares out of the speaker just about their heads. Neither of them laugh. Sam takes a deep breath and tries to concentrate.

"There. See that?" Dean points towards where the mummy's hand seems to clutch at the lip of the sarcophagus. He moves a little to one side to let Sam get closer.

"Where? Oh, I see." On the edge of the sarcophagus is a dried brown smear. A first glance it looks just like it's always been there, a smudge of resin or something as old as the mummy. But as Sam look closer, he can see small splashes of what looks like dried blood on the inside of the display case.

"Looks like you might have been right about a killer mummy after all."

"I don't know, there doesn't seem to be enough blood here if it was the mummy who did the disembowelling."

"Maybe the mummy didn't do the disembowelling then. But it's involved somehow - that blood didn't get there by accident."

"How very observant of you." They both turn at the sound of an unexpected voice. Sam's surprised to find Steadman and Steve there. For an instant, he just thinks that Steadman's going to have them thrown out, then he sees a taser in each of Steve's hands. He reaches for the gun tucked at the back of his jeans, sensing Dean doing the same, even though he knows they aren't going to make it in time. The last thing he's aware of, before 50,000 volts turns his world into a sea of red on black pain, is the sound of glass shattering behind him.

****

When Sam comes round, there isn't a part of his body that doesn't hurt. He can feel little spasms still making his muscles twitch and his head feels almost too heavy to lift. He tries to keep still, keep his breathing even, trying to figure out what's going on before anyone realizes he's conscious again.

His hands are bound behind him and there's what he assumes is a man on either side, supporting him. He doesn't dare open his eyes even a little. He can tell that there are at least half a dozen people in the room, besides the men holding him up. He can't tell where Dean is and that scares him.

"Ah, awake at last I see."

A hand slaps his face, hard enough to sting a little. There's no point in pretending any longer and he straightens up and opens his eyes.

"Fuck... Dean..."

It's the room from his vision. Bare white walls, no windows. And Dean, stripped to the waist, spread-eagle across a makeshift altar, hands bound above his head. On a table next to Dean's head are a variety of instruments; scalpels, saws, forceps. There are also four clay jars, each with a different animal head on. Some part of Sam's mind remembers that they are canopic jars, used for storing the organs taken from a body before it is mummified.

He can barely breathe for the fear that grips him. This is the second time he's had a vision that in some way presaged Dean's death and the second time he's had to face the very real possibility of it coming true. He struggles against the ropes around his wrists and the men holding him, but he's still weakened from the stun gun and the panic that makes his blood roar in his ears.

Steadman moves into view, dressed in a white robe of some kind. Steve stands next to Dean, one hand reaching out to trail down the side of Dean's face. Sam can't stop himself from struggling, can't bite back the growl at the overly familiar way Steve touches his brother.

Steadman laughs and Steve moves to stand beside him.

"Looks like you were right, they _aren't_ brothers after all." Sam grinds his teeth and tries not to let anything show on his face at the obvious lust in Steve's expression.

"Oh, they're brothers. I checked. Seems they're just a little bit more than just brothers though. Good, it should make the ritual all the more powerful. Go make sure everyone is prepared."

"What the fuck do you want with us?"

"You're both going to play the starring roles in the resurrection of our God."

"A resurrection? What resurrection?"

"We are all followers of the God Set. We've been waiting a long time for the conditions to be right to try and bring him back to this world. But with the arrival of the Books we had what we needed."

"So you're responsible for the deaths?"

"Yes. We needed the organs to replace those taken when Set's earthly form was mummified. But in order to trap him in the Underworld and prevent him from escaping the defilers also took his heart." Steadman reaches out and taps Sam's chest, right over Sam's frantically beating heart. "The organs have been mixed with those taken from Set's body and have absorbed his essence. But we've been waiting for a suitable host. For one whose form is worthy to carry the mind and soul of a God."

Cold dread runs down Sam's spine. He hears a groan and looks over to find that Dean is slowly coming round. The vision lurks at the edge of his memory, but he fights it, not wanting to give in to the fear. He needs to pay attention, needs to be alert.

"Dean, you're going to use Dean as the host?" The memory of something else looking at him through Dean's eyes intrudes and he has to swallow back burning bile.

"Oh yes. But don't worry, you get to play a role in this too. It's your heart we'll be using to complete the ritual."

"You keep your damned hands off him." Dean's voice is halfway between angry and terrified.

"Don't worry Dean, this way, there'll always be a part of Sam with you." Steve's grin is vicious and his hand rests on Dean's chest, as if he has the right to touch. His fingers trace the scars that run over Dean's shoulder. Sam swears that if they survive this, he's going to take great delight in breaking every single bone in Steve's hands and arms, from his little finger to his shoulder. And then he's going to snap the bastard's neck.

"This is insane. You can't honestly believe this." Sam can see Dean struggling, his body twisting frantically.

"Oh, but we do. I'd say that you will too, but I'm afraid that you won't be in any position to see it."

Steve wheels the trolley of instruments over and one of the other men lurking in the room brings a brazier of hot coals closer. Steadman reaches into a jar that another man offers him and throws a handful of what Sam assumes are herbs onto the embers. The cloud of heavily scented smoke that drifts up tickles his throat and makes his eyes water.

He coughs a little and the room seems to waver slightly. He catches sight of the mummy, standing by the door, silent and menacing. Steve steps forward and slices open the front of Sam's shirt. The mummy moves closer, its gait stiff and forced, like the creatures from the old black and white movies Dean likes so much.

Sam can hear Dean shouting and cursing in the background, but it's muffled and he realizes that there's clearly some kind of drug in the herbs and stuff that Steadman is burning. He can barely hold his head up and only the fear that if he doesn't struggle they'll both going to die stops him from giving in and slipping back into darkness.

****

Dean can barely move. His arms and legs are bound tightly to the table. He can see the mummy out of the corner of his eye, approaching Sam. It holds a copper bowl and Dean _knows_ that's to hold Sam's heart. He's heard enough to know what they're planning.

He can see Sam's head starting to drop and when Steve cuts his shirt open, Dean starts struggling in earnest. He's driven by the bone deep fear of losing Sam, because if he looses Sam then it doesn't matter what happens to him, he has no reason to carry on anyway.

It's desperation that has him reaching for the bond, reaching out to Sam as Steadman picks up a scalpel. It's blind panic driving him when he catches something through the bond. He grabs it, throws all his fear, his anger, his _love_ for his brother behind it and lets go.

The two men holding Sam are slammed into the wall behind him. Sam drops to his knees, shaking his head as if he's trying to clear it. The brazier of coals rises four feet into the air and explodes. Several embers hit the mummy and the millennia old resin turns it into a walking torch. The thing emits a hideous screech and flails wildly. Men are running everywhere, trying to get out, trying to avoid the mummy's fiery touch. Steadman is standing completely still in the midst of the chaos, looking down at his own chest. The scalpel, as well as the scissors Steve used to cut Sam's clothes, stick out of his chest. Steve stands next to him still, staring in shock and horror as Steadman crumples slowly, like a puppet with its strings cut.

Dean pulls on his bindings and discovers that he's no longer tied down. Sam's just struggling to his feet when Dean sits up. Steve turns back to Sam.

"You. This is your fault." He grabs a knife from the tray and raises it above his head.

****

Sam's still half drugged but he's fairly certain that Dean's somehow responsible for the chaos around them, though he can't get his mind to grasp the whole scene yet.

He looks up, catching sight of the glint of steel as Steve prepares to kill him. He watches the blade descend, knowing he won't react in time to dodge the blow. Dean appears suddenly behind Steve, grabbing his wrist before Steve can strike. Dean twists and pulls, as he wraps one arm around Steve's throat and Sam can hear Steve's arm bones snap like twigs. There's a vicious sense of satisfaction in the sound and the keening wail that escapes Steve immediately afterwards. Dean kicks Steve's leg from under him, dropping him to his knees in front of Sam, Dean's arm still around his throat.

The look on Dean's face is blank, but Sam can see the fury in his brother's eyes. Dean shifts his grip and grabbing Steve's head, he twists viciously. Steve's cry is cut off as his neck snaps. Sam would be worried by the savage pleasure that spreads over Dean's face, if he wasn't sure that his own expression mirrored it. There's something savagely beautiful about Dean as he stands over Steve's body and Sam's vaguely aware that it's all kinds of fucked up how he can even _think_ about how much he wants to fuck his brother right now. He knows this isn’t the first person Dean’s killed to keep Sam safe, but to _see_ the lengths Dean will go to is something else. It’s disturbing and hot and Sam doesn’t know if he’s worthy of that devotion.

Dean drops Steve's body and reaches around to cut Sam's hands free. They’re the only ones left in the room, everyone else had fled and the mummy is nowhere to be seen. Dean pulls Sam to his feet, slipping his arm around Sam's waist. Sam clings to Dean. His head is starting to clear and he just wants to be out of this place as quickly as possible.

They stagger out of the room just as the sprinklers come on. They're both drenched in seconds. Dean steers them up the stairs and out into the main hall of the museum. There's a smoking pile on the floor that Sam assumes used to be the mummy. It seems that in its flight, it managed to set the large woolly mammoth alight and it's that that set the sprinklers off. The mammoth is now half bald and smoking.

Dean wrinkles his nose and grimaces.

"Smells like burning hair and wet dog."

"Yeah, well it would." Sam's capable of walking on his own, but neither of them are inclined to let go. Sam has a shit-load of questions about what happened, but now isn't the time, especially when he can hear sirens in the distance.

They crash out of an emergency exit and head for the car as quickly as possible. Fortunately, there aren't many people about. The car keys are still in Dean's pocket so they are pulling away and heading in the opposite direction when the first fire engine passes them on the way to the museum. They don't speak on the drive back to the motel. Sam knows they need to talk, knows they have a lot of talk _about_ , but now isn't the time for that.

Dean pulls into the motel parking lot and parks the car in the darkest corner he can find, halfway around the back of the building, just in case anyone noticed them or the car. He's out of the car before Sam can say anything but Sam catches up with him before he rounds the corner of the building. He means to just touch Dean, to hold him; he just needs the reassurance that they've cheated death again but the second his arm closes around his brother's bicep, everything changes.

The kiss is hard, almost brutal. Sam would swear he can taste smoke and blood in Dean's mouth and it makes something twist in his gut. Dean kisses him back just as furiously, pulling Sam closer. They crash into the wall of the motel and Sam doesn't care about the fact that they're soaking wet and that the night is cold. All he can feel is Dean's body against his, alive and vital. He wants to drown in the warmth of Dean's skin, the feel of his brother's body against his, the sheer unadulterated joy of _having_ Dean.

It's rough and messy and they barely even manage to get their wet jeans open, jerking each other off in the dark, mouths feasting on each other. It's not the best orgasm Sam's ever had, but he doesn't care. This isn't about pleasure, it's about proving that they're alive.

When it's over and they're sticky and panting for breath, Sam rests his forehead against Dean's. He has no idea how long they stand there, but eventually they pull themselves apart, get their clothes together as best they can and head for their room.

****

Sam's peels his shoes and sodden clothes off, cleaning up briefly with a flannel and scrubbing a towel over his damp hair. He's pretty much out like a light the second he climbs onto the bed. He doesn't even bother getting under the covers. Dean can't settle so easily. He showers, then dresses in boxers and a baggy t-shirt. He grabs his knives and whetstone. The rhythmic action of sharpening the blades helps to calm his jittery nerves and gives him something to focus on instead of the frantic thoughts bouncing around his brain.

He's truly terrified by the realisation that the bond goes much, much deeper than he expected. He shared Sam's vision earlier. Then tonight, in that featureless room, when he thought Steve and Steadman were going to kill Sam he actively reached across the bond and somehow found and used Sam's power against them. It wasn't refined, he had no real idea of how he did it, but he _knew_ what he was doing.

What he didn't tell Sam earlier was that he didn't just see himself as a living host for the God, he saw Sam, with his chest ripped open, lying lifeless on the floor like discarded trash. He has no idea if Sam saw that too; hasn't wanted to push Sam too much for details after seeing his brother's reaction the first time he asked.

He knows when Sam wakes he's going to want to talk this thing to death. He's going to want to know how Dean did what he did. He's going to worry and pry and nag until he wrings every last detail from Dean and then he's going to want to know more. There's a small voice in the back of Dean's head that asks whether he'd have agreed to the tattoos and the bond if he'd known how deep this would go.

The answer is so easy he doesn't even have to think about it. He would have. He'd take the visions and the power and all the other freaky shit because the bond gave him the ability to keep Sammy safe this time. He'll bitch like hell and deny to his dying day that he wants anything to do with Sam's powers, but if it gives him an edge, if it keeps them safe, then he'll welcome it. He can't deny that for a second, the sense of power, of control was exhilarating. All the power somehow flowing through him. Seeing the shock on Steadman's face.

His hands convulse, gripping the knife hilt and whetstone so tightly he hears his knuckles crack. It reminds him of the sounds of Steve's neck breaking. The redhead isn't the first human that Dean's killed, but he's the first one Dean has actually enjoyed. He can't forget the look on Sam's face. His brother's eyes were almost totally black, dilated by whatever was in the incense, his face twisted with feral delight. To know that Sam can see the worst of him; the things that Dean’s prepared to do for his brother, his lover, and still want him is awe inspiring. It makes something hot and heavy curl under Dean's ribcage. It makes him want to see that look on Sam's face again.

He looks over at his brother. It's like he's no longer in control of his own body when he puts down the knife and stone and walks over to the foot of the bed. It takes just seconds to strip and then he's crawling across the bed, up Sam's naked body. It doesn't matter that he came in his jeans like a teenager just a short while ago.

Sam doesn't stir, even when Dean reaches across him to grab the lube from the bedside table. He shifts and mumbles something nonsensical under his breath when Dean wraps a slick hand around Sam's cock. He strokes, feeling Sam harden under his touch, watching a slow flush spread across Sam's cheeks as he edges closer to waking. He waits until Sam's panting and he's struggling to open his eyes before straddling Sam's hips. The second he lets himself slide down onto Sam's cock is the moment Sam's eyes snap open, colour utterly eclipsed by his pupils. His hands grab Dean's hips, pulling him down even as Sam's back arches and his hips drive up.

Dean can't help the harsh sound that escapes his lips, caught somewhere between pain and pleasure and loving them both.

"Jesus-fucking _Christ_ , Dean. What..." Sam's voice is rough, darkened by sleep and lust.

Dean bends forward, making Sam shiver and drive up again, and nuzzles under Sam's jaw, before setting his teeth in Sam's neck, biting hard enough to bruise. Sam's shout nearly deafens him, but it's worth it when Sam surges up, wrapping his arms around Dean so that he can keep him impaled on his cock while he twists them about so Dean's on his back on the bed.

“Fuck me. Hard. Just… Make me feel it, Sam.”

“I don’t… Dean, what? Why?”

Dean shifts his hips, flexing his body upwards. He doesn’t want to be talking right now.

“Saw the way you looked at me when I broke Steve’s neck. Come on. Wanna know how it made you feel to see me kill someone for you.”

“Fuck. That’s… _Dean_ …” Sam’s panting, hips starting to rock, fingers clutching tightly at Dean’s biceps.

“Show me, damnit.”

Sam's eyes are wide and there's that look of brutal delight again as he looks down at Dean. Sam shivers and Dean _knows_ that Sam’s remembering the scene in the museum. His expression turns determined and that desperate, savage lust bleeds into Sam’s eyes and when he pulls his hips back and drives _hard_ into Dean’s body, there's just an edge of fear that only adds to the pleasure. He doesn't know whether to be delighted or worried that it's apparently so easy to drive Sam to this kind of mindless need.

He reaches up and drags Sam's head down until they can kiss. It's messy and a little awkward and Dean couldn't care less. Sam's strokes are hard and deep, his hips pressing up against Dean's over and over until Dean doesn't know whether they've been doing this for minutes or hours. He's lost in the pleasure of Sam fucking him, in the desperate need in Sam's eyes, the fact that he keeps gasping Dean's name even though Dean's sure he doesn't realize it. It’s not as brutal as Dean would have expected but it’s harsh and punishing and Dean needs it; needs to remind himself they’re alive, that Sam’s here, with him, that Sam _loves_ him, despite everything that Dean’s gotten wrong over the years.

Sam drives into him one last time, fast and vicious enough that Dean knows he'll ache tomorrow. He relishes the way Sam shudders and his voice breaks on an almost-sob as he comes and comes. Dean's aching with his own arousal, but he's content for the moment to let Sam ride out his orgasm.

He shudders himself when Sam sits back, the sudden withdrawal confusing his body with pleasure/pain.

"Touch yourself. I want to see you come. Show me, Dean." It’s only the lust behind the words that stops them being a mockery of Dean’s earlier request.

"Fuck..."

Sam's chuckle is dark-edged and fucked out.

"Done that. Now I want to see. Want you to do it for _me_."

The pleasure of Sam wanting _that_ makes every hair on Dean's body stand on end and his hand's around his cock before he's even aware of having moved it. He can't take his eyes off Sam, kneeling between Dean's spread thighs, cock still half hard and slick, eyes dark and shadowed. Sam's gaze flicks between Dean's hand and his face, teeth chewing his lip the way he always does when he's concentrating.

Dean tries to draw it out, flushed with the heady power of Sam watching him like this, of seeing the lust in Sam's face, but it's too good, the need to come too strong. His back arches and just as his hips come up off the bed, Sam's huge hands are pressing him back down, pinning his body to the mattress. He can hear his own shout of surprise and the sudden immobility just makes him come that much harder, certain it's Sam's name on his lips as he does.

He slumps back against the mattress long minutes later, gasping and feeling as though he's run a damned marathon.

"Fuck." Sam sounds awed.

Dean laughs, feeling the rawness in his throat.

"Yeah." He shudders as Sam slides one hand up Dean's side, catching his shoulder and pulling Dean up to meet Sam's lips.

"God, Dean... What the hell was that?"

"Tomorrow, Sam. Talking tomorrow, sleeping now."

Sam nods and turns and flops down on the bed next to Dean, his thigh touching Dean's. He's asleep again in less than a minute, his breath slow and steady. Dean stares at the ceiling for a second, then gets up, wipes himself down with a damp cloth, makes sure that the doors and windows are locked and salted and then crawls back into bed. He presses his thigh against Sam's and closes his eyes, the fear and that little voice subdued for now.

****

Sam hasn't had a nightmare for months now, but his body still hasn't got out of the habit of waking early. Dean's fast asleep, flat on his back, the way he always sleeps when he's utterly exhausted. He has a brief memory of holding Dean down as his brother's body was wracked by orgasm, head thrown back, throat bared, Sam's name sounding like it was dragged all the way from his feet.

It shocked him, how much the memory of Dean breaking Steve’s neck aroused him. The part of him that wanted to be normal knows he shouldn’t have found it hot, that bottomless devotion that Dean has. The logical side knows it’s mostly just a product of their upbringing, when death and danger where commonplace and all too often the only time Dad showed any affection was when one of them was hurt. It was inevitable that violence and love would somehow get tangled up in their heads.

The rest of him doesn’t give a fuck about the why. All it remembers is the fact that Dean _killed_ for him, again and the way Dean looked when he did it. Sam meant it when he said that nothing Dean’s done or will do could make him leave now. He just never expected his own reaction to it.

He gets dressed and heads out for coffee, needing time to subdue the urge to take Dean again, to slide into his brother while he's still asleep, his body warm and pliant. As much as he wants that, and he does, dear God, far more than he probably should, he needs to think things over. He needs to know what happened yesterday in the museum.

The more he thinks about it, the clearer the memories become. He remembers watching Steadman approach him and then everything went crazy. He remembers knives flying, the brazier showering the room with hot coals. He knows he didn't do it this time. Which leaves the inescapable conclusion that somehow, Dean must have been responsible. Sam assumes it has something to do with the bond, but until he can get Dean to talk to him about it, it's all just speculation. Sam's not looking forward to that conversation though.

He grabs a couple of local papers along with the coffee, and some donuts for Dean. While he waits for the drinks he reads the front page report about the mysterious fire at the museum the night before. The girl who serves him is more than happy to discuss the current town gossip on what really happened and what the police _actually_ found at the museum.

When he gets back to the motel, Dean's still sleeping, curled on his side, facing the spot Sam would occupy if he were in bed. Sam pulls a chair closer to the bed and sits back, sipping coffee and stealing one of the sugar donuts, content to just watch Dean, to just know that they've survived another hunt, another night.

It doesn't take more than a couple of minutes before Dean's stirring, pulled from sleep by the smell of coffee. He crawls to the end of the bed, reaching out for the cup Sam offers him. He reaches past Sam and snatches the bag of donuts and a paper before settling, one leg curled under him. He's sleepy and mussed up and slightly grumpy still and Sam has to hide a grin behind his cup.

Dean balances the paper on his knees, drinking coffee with one hand and leaving sugar all over the floor, bed and paper as he eats. He licks his lips, then his fingers, before reaching for the second donut and Sam has to look away. He's learned that no matter how many times he sees Dean do something like that, it never fails to make his breath catch and his cock twitch.

He waits for Dean to finish the second donut and get at least half way through the coffee before he says anything. Dean is most definitely not a morning person and Sam knows better than to try talking to Dean before his brother's consumed enough caffeine and sugar.

"See the museum fire made the front page then." Dean's voice is still a little hoarse and damnit, Sam doesn't know where this sudden need to spend _every_ waking moment fucking his brother has come from, but he needs to get it under control.

"Yeah. The police haven't released much information, but the local gossip is already in full swing."

Dean raises an eyebrow and drains the last of his coffee

"Really. And what does the rumour mill say happened?"

"Seems the general view is that the museum curator and some of his staff were involved in some kind of weird cult. It seems that the police have been removing all sorts of stuff from the homes of several people. According to Liz..."

"Liz?"

"The girl in the cafe."

"Oh." There's just a hint of something dark in Dean's expression, there and gone again so quickly Sam's _almost_ convinced he imagined it. But he's waited too long to see it, too long to see what he's always known; that Dean is as possessive as Sam is, that he's sure enough that Sam's going to stay to allow himself to care, to feel the same jealousy that's been burning Sam up these last few weeks. The wave of satisfaction and relief that sweeps through him is exhilarating, but he bites his lip and tries not to let it show on his face.

"She says that her brother is friends with one of the deputies and he says that they've found evidence to show that the cult is linked to the deaths."

Dean snorts. "No shit."

"Yeah. They think the security guard was killed so Steadman could employ Steve. The research assistant may just have seen or heard something she shouldn't have."

"And the other guy, Fuller?"

"Looks like he was a member of the cult. The general opinion was that he got cold feet after the first murder and he was killed to keep him quiet."

"And the policewoman? Did she found out something she wasn't supposed to as well?"

Sam shrugs. "That's what everyone is thinking."

"Huh. So that's it? The police aren't looking for anyone else?"

"No. They reckon that the cult members turned on each other and that during a fight the fire got overturned and everyone fled. They're looking for suspected members and those people who've gone missing overnight. The museum is a real mess, apparently. Several exhibits were destroyed, including the Books and most of the Egyptian collection. Not to mention the mammoth."

Dean wrinkles his nose as if he can still smell the smoke and burnt hair.

"So the books are gone then?" Sam nods. "Good. Those damned things are just too dangerous as far as I can see."

"Yeah. Dean... last night. I... what happened?"

“You really want to have a birds and bees talk?”

Sam fights the urge to reach over and smack his brother about the head.

“Not that, I meant at the museum.”

Dean tenses. Sam holds his breath, half expecting Dean to actually bolt, to try and put some distance between himself and a conversation he clearly doesn't want to have. It's something of a surprise then when he doesn't leave. He doesn't relax, but he stays put.

"I don't know."

"Dean..."

"I'm serious Sam. I didn't mean to... to do that. I was just desperate and he was going to kill you and..." Dean takes a gulp of air, then another, slower breath. "I just kinda reached out and there it was and I just... I didn't know what the hell I was doing."

Sam nods, he understands that. The one or two times he's managed to tap into that power, it's been entirely accidental. It doesn't seem to be something he can do consciously. That Dean could tap into it as well surprises him, but it's a sign of how strong their bond is now.

"Another side effect of the bond."

"It was... scary, but good. So much power."

Sam blows out a breath. He can't describe the sense of relief he feels that Dean actually understands. It's part of the reason Sam's been reluctant to try and use that power. He's worried that it would be way too easy to become addicted to it.

"Yeah."

Dean watches him for a moment as if he's waiting for Sam to say or do something.

"What?"

"Aren't you going to launch into some big speech about how we should be exploring the bond and honing our abilities, or something?"

Sam laughs, he can't help it.

"Why? Would you actually agree to try if I did suggest it?"

"Yes." Dean's voice is quiet, but certain and he's looking Sam in the eye when he answers.

Sam stares at his brother, laughter forgotten. He's sure he's got the dumbest expression on his face, but he's finding it hard to believe what he's hearing.

"You... what?"

Dean shrugs, suddenly uncomfortable again. "The bond's permanent. It's probably only going to get stronger. If it gives us an edge, then I think we should work on it. Just don't go poking about in my head."

Every time Sam thinks he's got his brother figured out, Dean turns around and surprises him all over again. He wants to kiss Dean, wants to pin him to the bed, make him writhe and scream, wants to drop to his knees and offer Dean absolutely _everything_ , because Dean's finally, _finally_ got it. He's finally let himself believe that Sam's here for good. Sam wants to shout for joy. Instead he grins at his annoying, infuriating, obnoxious, adored older brother.

"Trust me, I have no intention of it." Dean stands and heads towards the bathroom. Sam waits until his brother is halfway through the door. "Besides, in order to read your mind, you'd have to have a mind for me to read..."

"Fuck you, bitch. See if I leave you any hot water now." The door slams shut and Sam lets out the laugh he's been holding in. He waits until he hears the shower start up then he heads for the bathroom himself, stripping as he goes.

He opens the bathroom door to clouds of steam. When he steps into the tub, Dean turns to face him, hair plastered to his head, water clinging to his eyelashes and dripping off his nose.

"Took you long enough..."

Sam kisses the leer from Dean's lips, then slides down his brother's body until he's kneeling at Dean's feet. The hunt's over, they've got nothing else lined up and Sam has a whole list of things he wants to do to Dean, starting with blowing him in the shower.


End file.
